


Birth

by Feral_Fic_Writer



Series: Feral's Bitch Rescue [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dehumanization, Hound/Human Sherlock, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Saint, Mind Palace, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Past Abuse, Past Bestiality, Past Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, Puppy Play?, Rape Recovery, Rehumanization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feral_Fic_Writer/pseuds/Feral_Fic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's been missing for months. </p><p>Kidnapped, drugged, and degraded, he's been turned into the perfect pet for his perverted master. </p><p>Mind broken to believe he's nothing more than a bitch to be used for his owner's pleasure, Sherlock's given his transport over to hound Sherlock. The rest of him has taken refuge so deep inside his mind palace he's become lost.</p><p>Until he's found.</p><p>This is a recovery fic, inspired by fireofangels' powerful fics "Bitch" and "Bred."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bitch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/421214) by [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/pseuds/fireofangels). 



> I would encourage you to read fireofangels' pieces "Bitch" and "Bred" before this, though it may not be entirely necessary. Please note, fireofangels' "Bitch" series contains graphic depictions of mental torture and bestiality. This said, they're extremely well written and potent works that will stick like a pebble in the shoe of your mind.
> 
> At least, that's the effect they had on me. 
> 
> This is how I chose to exorcise that particular literary haunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that throughout this fic, any line of dialogue with an asterisks (*) after it, has been taken directly from fireofangels' original work "Bitch" or "Bred." Know too, this is meant to acknowledge the text's original author and no infringement is intended.

* * *

* * *

 

The venue she’s chosen is public and populated. It makes things inconvenient for him, but then as long as Mycroft has known Irene, “convenience” has never been a word he’s associated with her.

Were the circumstances any different at all, he would have refused, would have negotiated for some place more suitable where his men would have the advantage. Today, however, outside Anthea and his driver, he is here completely unattended.

Her call had come in on his private line. She’d offered no teasing greeting, just the three little words that ensured she’d have his undivided attention.

_“I found him.”_

How she got access to his number, Mycroft has yet to find out, but Irene has always been, if anything, resourceful. Meeting set, his head of technology security was sacked thirty seconds after he’d hung up the phone.

He’s arrived a bit early but not nearly as much as he would have liked to. Sitting in the car now, the only sign of unease is the occasional twist to the handle of the umbrella he holds in one hand. The other grips his cell.

Surprisingly, Irene takes up her post in the coffee shop twenty minutes early herself. 

His fear ebbs from him that this was all just a setup, some elaborate ruse, as he watches her settle in on his phone, following the live feed of the shop’s security cameras. Careful scrutiny reveals Adler’s anxious. Her body language declares her burdened.

Mycroft waits. He debates with himself. He could have gone into the shop ages ago but this would reveal him far too eager and he knows that his bothersome feelings for Sherlock have already compromised him immensely.

Another swell of emotion pulses within him and he quashes it down.

Hope is even more dangerous than sentiment.

* * *

 

“Miss Adler.”

Wide, siren’s eyes lift and Mycroft notices immediately that there’s an unhealthy darkness beneath them that even Irene’s masterful cosmetic camouflage cannot disguise. He sits and allows the waitress to take an order for a tea he has no intention of drinking.

No sooner does their attendant leave them than Irene breathes out in a rush.

“He’s alive.”

It takes all his will to still his features, but within him, Mycroft’s taxed heart pounds. He braces himself for the catch, for whatever bargain Irene hopes to strike. He’s surprised when, instead, she pushes a small jump drive across the cheap laminate at him.

“I went to a party with some clients last week. A very _special_ party. Flew all the way over to the States for it.”

Unusually, Irene casts her eyes to the side before she continues. “As many things as I do, as much as I’m into, it was not the kind of event I would have ever gone to on my own.”

Gingered brows arch ever so slightly. The twist in Mycroft’s gut tightens at the thought of just what might actually lie outside Irene Adler’s level of comfort.

“Sherlock was there…

“He… He was part of the night’s entertainments.”

Turning back to him, Mycroft is stunned to see glistening eyes.  A tear slips from a khol-lined corner and the wet trail of it unravels down Irene’s cheek. Powerful actress, he’s about to call her out on her crocodile tears but her next words immobilize him.

“Such a beautiful creature, Sherlock. I wanted to break him, you know. If he’d let me.  He could have perhaps come out of the experience even more whole. But now… he’s…”

When polished fingertips press the jump into his clammy palm, Mycroft isn’t even aware that he’s reached for it.  Irene’s next word is a whisper, but even amidst the din of the crowded shop he hears each thudding syllable.

“Shattered.”

In the moment he wants nothing more than to hurl the tiny device in his hand away, to flee. Instead he straightens. He wraps another layer of iron around his heart and proceeds.

“And what is it you want for this, Miss Adler?” He knows from past dealings that nothing is free with Irene.

Shock sparks across her face at the question, disgust follows quickly.  She wipes this away with her wayward tear and in an instant regains her composure.  Irene’s expression is calm but her eyes are impossibly sharp. She stands and pushes herself away from the table.

“For all the trouble I went through to get you that.” She nods down at the jump in his hand, “you should be in my debt indefinitely.”

The steel in her gaze softens but her next words slice like a Samurai’s blade. “But, what I truly _want_ , Mycroft, is for you to save him. And if you can’t put him back together again, do the decent thing and put Sherlock…  or what’s left of him, out of his misery.”

With that she turns on the heel of her six-hundred pound pumps and clicks her way out of the shop.

Mycroft’s tea arrives mere moments later and sits untouched until it is cold. It takes him that long to compose himself enough to follow.

* * *

 

It is just past midnight when he arrives at his flat. Security checked and rechecked, attendants dismissed, Mycroft settles into his study. He opens a brand new i-pad, takes it fresh from the box. Even after Irene’s display, he’s not foolish enough to open the device she gave him on one of his regular machines.

One tumbler of Scotch becomes two before he’s finally ready. Ever since he left the coffee shop he’s been procrastinating, berating himself for his weakness as each minute has passed. But Irene indicated his brother is alive; the damage, it sounds, has been already done; and Sherlock is being kept. So the length of a few extra hours can’t have made things that much worse for him.

Mycroft downs another liquored gulp with his lie.

The i-pad blinks to life and he opens the drive. Irene is thorough, as usual, and there are several media files for his choosing. He opens the one entitled _“Beginnings.”_

The screen fills with images.  

If the auto-date is correct, he sees his brother early in his days of captivity. Naked, muzzled, and leashed. He watches Sherlock struggle against the collar around his neck, the hands gripping him tightly; sees him cease to fight minutes after the syringe pierces a bony hip and the plunger drops.

And then…

Ten minutes further in, the eighty year-old Scotch he’s ingested relocates itself from Mycroft’s belly to the bin by his desk.  Twelve minutes have passed when he makes his first phone call. As the night unfolds its infinite darkness, other calls follow. Too many to count. 

Mycroft talks, voice low and harsh, as he continues to watch every second of the six hours of footage Irene’s supplied.  Witnessing his brother unraveled, reduced, it seems an impossible feat, but every successive second of film is worse than the last.

In between phone calls the remaining Scotch constantly shifts, flowing from bottle to tumbler, to stomach, to bin. When the first crystal carafe stands empty, a second follows. 

It’s half-past eight when Anthea comes in the morning to collect him for his flight. Smart woman, knowing to arrive two hours before she technically should to retrieve him.  It takes every minute of that time to pull Mycroft into necessary order.

The word “shattered” is no longer solely reserved for Sherlock.

* * *

 


	2. Back

* * *

Leg acting up in old ways, John is limping home from the clinic when his phone goes off.  At almost two years since Sherlock’s disappearance the tension that accompanies every ring is barely noticeable now. This shifts instantly, however, the moment his eyes scan the text from an unknown number.

_Join me please, John.  If you’re inclined._

_M.H._

His blond head pops up and his heart crashes against the cage of his chest when John sees the black car idling at the end of the block. It has been months since Mycroft has contacted him and this can only mean one thing.  The ache in his leg evaporates as the urge to run seizes. Towards the car and what it contains or away from it?  He’s torn but…

He has to know.

Long strides carry him to the shining sedan before the back door has even cracked. Sliding into the auto’s interior, John’s eyes adjust as they seek out its occupant. One need be no great deducer to know that the situation is grave.

“Alive?” The word leaves his mouth before Mycroft can offer any semblance of greeting.

Mycroft’s lips shut in a tight line. He nods. John notices the subtle twist Sherlock’s brother gives to the brolly set between tailored thighs.

“But?..."  Like a dog that’s scented a long absent master, John squirms with impatience.

“Can I see him?”

The seal of Mycroft’s thin lips splits with a sigh.

“Take me to him, Mycroft.”

“John, I don’t think you should…”

“Take me to him!” There’s military steel in John’s voice now. Fuck the English government, Sherlock’s alive and he’s not getting out of this car until he knows he’ll see him again, whatever his state.

“He’s out in the country, John.  At one of our manors.”

 _A house, not a hospital: this is good_ , John thinks. Mycroft reads the open pages of his thoughts and gives a slow shake of his head.

“Given the circumstances, our station, my position, Hospital wasn’t a viable option.” Leaning his umbrella against the seat, he opens his jacket and removes a mini-tablet. He passes it over. “The footage will erase after the first time it runs, so you’ll want to be careful when you start it.”

John takes the device. He tips his head slightly and frowns, suddenly seeing how absolutely wrung out Mycroft looks.

“I highly recommend that you view it in private.”

John nods as he slips the tablet into his coat.

“If you still want to see him after you’ve watched it, a car will collect you at nine.”

There’s no need to ask where the car will be, knowing already that wherever he is, Mycroft will find him.  In a blink the door clicks and John’s back on the curb again. Before it swings shut, Mycroft leans forward and catches his eye one last time.

“Mind you, John. What’s there… It’s far from the worst of it.”

* * *

 

He’s just finished putting the last of his things into his rucksack when the flat’s door opens. Glancing at the clock John see he’s still got just shy of an hour yet. Given the seeming interminability of the footage he watched earlier, the fact of this amazes him.

“Johnny, you home?”

Mary’s voice calls out as she enters the hall. Her shift ended later than his. She stops short, eyes grown large, when she comes upon him in the front room, seeing him standing there packed.

“They’ve found him,” John rasps out in answer to her unspoken question.  He drops his head to cinch his pack closed. “I’m giving my notice.”

“To the clinic or to us, John?”

John’s eyes snap up at the question and he sees Mary knows the answer already. She’s always been a sharp one. Not as brilliant as Sherlock, however.

_No one is…_

_Was?_

The question of tenses slams John in the gut, the images from the clips he watched seared into his mind now like a brand.

Mary’s heavy sigh brings him back to the moment. She sets her bag on what had become “John’s chair,” now just “chair” again.

“Have time for a cup of tea at least, before you go?”

John looks to the clock once more; his anxious heart howls at how little it’s advanced. He’s both grateful and guilty Mary’s kind enough to offer him one more reprieve, one last diversion.

He nods his head and follows her into the kitchen.

* * *

 Outside Mary’s, climbing into the car for the second time that day; John’s surprised to see Mycroft again. Even more astonishing is the brief expression of relief that flickers over the elder Holmes’ face at his appearance.

Noticing John’s rucksack pulled in behind him, Mycroft’s brow lifts.  “Planning an extended journey somewhere?”

John meets his gaze, his generally pleasant face suddenly hard in a way that brokers no argument. “I’m seeing Sherlock through this… However long it takes.”

“As his physician, his friend, or his…” Mycroft’s mouth purses closed before he completes his sentence, leaving unarticulated the potentially “Wilde ways” of his younger brother and his flatmate.

“Does it matter?”

Seeing the determination in John Watson’s gaze, Mycroft concedes. He settles back in his seat with a sigh as the car pulls away from the curb.

“No, I suppose not.”

* * *

There’s fifteen minutes of silence between them before Mycroft clears his throat.

“You saw the video…”

Nodding, John’s eyes drop away and his cheeks heat at the fresh memory of what he’s seen. Snippets of it have been randomly looping through his mind ever since. Each instance jolts his gut and twists his throat all but airless with rage, grief, and disgust.

“I’m rather glad you decided to come, John,” Mycroft admits at last; as if John hasn’t already determined this was exactly his plan from the start.

“You were always so good for him and, well… In his present state, he’s been so…  Unmanageable.”

“Wha-? Wait!” Fingers clench the edge of the leather upholstery as John grips it to keep himself from lunging forward. “Fuck, Mycroft, how long have you known he’s alive-- had him without telling me?”

“He’s been at the estate for a month.”

Mycroft’s spine is rigid; his body tenses, readying itself for John’s attack. When it doesn’t instantly happen he takes the opportunity to add, “And before that, it took almost that long to get him out of the States and home again.”

“He was in the U.S.?” Wonder overcomes fury and John’s grip loosens ever so slightly.

“Bloody Americans, so damn unreasonable,” Mycroft growls.  “But yes, John. South Texas, Matagorda County, near the gulf. His captor owned quite a bit of beachfront there it seems. He was very well connected.”

The fact that Mycroft, the wordsmith, uses “owned” and “was,” past tenses, fills John with a dark thrill. While now’s not the time for pursuing such details, even so, he can’t help but ask about the “connections.”

“Criminal or political?”

Were the circumstances altered, Mycroft would be amused that within John Watson’s mind these two things are still delineated.

“Does it matter?” He answers, echoing previous conversation.

Less than a second ticks by before John follows with a repetition of his own. “No, I suppose not.”

“Either way,” Mycroft sighs, feeling so damnably weary, “it was a bit of an international incident getting him out. I’ll be filling out paperwork for months.”

Bleak as all this is, John can’t but help crack a smile. At least until he asks the next question. “But how did Sherlock get to America? I mean, how did it happen?” 

The last time he’d seen him, Sherlock was embroiled in a case, going deep undercover. Then he just disappeared.

“Sherlock’s never been the best at making friends, John. You know this as well as I do." Mycroft’s still furious, with what he knows now, that when Sherlock suddenly evaporated he couldn’t even find a trace of him.

"One of these 'non-friends' involved in Sherlock’s last case got annoyed with him, apparently.

“For all his brilliance my brother sometimes makes foolish decisions. He got caught. The offended party wanted to make an example of him and so, sold him off to a very wealthy deviant with the time and the resources to do so.”

Watching John’s reactions carefully, Mycroft turns and pulls a folder out of the expensive work case on the seat beside him. He passes it over.

A blond brow creases as John scans through the documents. Medical reports mostly, some psychological. The results of Sherlock’s blood work alone make his mind reel. Uppers, downers, potent aphrodisiacs, psychotropics of all kinds, plus, at least a half a dozen names he doesn’t recognize at all. He picks up the sheet and wordlessly rattles it.

Mycroft knows immediately what it is that he holds. He has the entire contents of the file memorized.

“Yes.” He starts slowly. “The leader of Sherlock’s assailants was into pharmaceuticals, many not available on the market. Some were things in testing for the American military, drugs designed to make unruly prisoners more susceptible to suggestion, increase their submission.”

“Bloody hell,” John breathes.

“Exactly.  Unfortunately very effective it appears… and addictive.

“Even now, he’s not off of everything.” Mycroft’s face is impassive but his eyes let the pain slip. “It’s not safe for him. He’s so…” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head and shifts. “If you’re to try and help him at all, you need to prepare yourself, John. Familiarize yourself with all the contents of that file.”

Reaching into the case again, Mycroft withdraws another mini tablet, complete with headphones so there’s no chance he’ll have to hear another second of hell. “There’s more you should see here too, though this is not all of it…”

The thought of what Irene held back or simply didn’t obtain overwhelms: weeks, months, almost two years of…

John’s eyes widen when he hears an audible catch in the elder Holmes’s voice. “Sherlock… as we knew him… is missing still. And I don’t know that he’ll ever return.

“I hope you can help find him, John. Bring him back.”

* * *

 


	3. Beloved

 

* * *

New mission set, the remaining ride to the manor is no less nerve-wracking for John than the carrier’s drop was into Afghanistan.

Somehow he endures the rest of the three hour car trip, the folder, the new footage. He bears Mycroft’s careful introductions to the estate’s serious and discreet staff, the interminable preparatory rambling of the current attending physician. By the time he’s finally led up the wide winding staircase to Sherlock’s room, however, it’s all he can do not set his hands on the older Holmes’ prosperous ass and push him aside, unwilling to wait one more moment.

The large room is dim as they enter but even in this light, John's quick scan takes its opulence in. Fireplace, couch, desk, massive bed. All empty. But out of place and occupied amidst the room's rich interior, a hospital bed has been installed. Beside it, a male nurse rises from the chair he’s been occupying. John immediately notes the size of the guy’s arms and guesses he was hired for reasons reaching well beyond just his bedside manner.

With a crisp nod from Mycroft, the man silently leaves the room. Before he has closed the door behind him, three long, unlimping strides carry John bedside.  His breath stops when his eyes sweep over its occupant.

“Sherlock… John’s come to see you,” Mycroft’s tense voice calls out over his shoulder.

Trying futilely to flee from the newcomers, the figure in the bed has begun thrashing in fear.

Seeing Sherlock at last, it’s not the restraints, the hollow, heaving belly, or the nappy visible above shambled sheets that kills John. No. It’s the lolling tongue that hangs from Sherlock’s panting mouth and the pale eyes that hold only chemically-sedated terror and not one whit of recognition.

Despite the horror of it, John’s unable to help himself. He’s overwhelmed and this crying, messy creature still looks so much like Sherlock his hand extends on its own. It rends him to see the broken body cringe in on itself as much as the ties allow.

The whine that leaks from Sherlock’s throat is not human and suddenly everything that John’s seen on the tablets becomes real in a terrible new way. He stops, hand hovering, as through his military and medical minds and the intimate knowledge he has of Sherlock, he reviews the situation, all he’s read and seen now. 

His nostrils immediately catch the acrid scent of piss and John recognizes it as submissive urination, a behavior of frightened and insecure hounds. Eyes glancing down, he sees the soiled diaper pushed awkwardly out by Sherlock’s erection. Pissing while hard is not necessarily the most comfortable thing to do, he knows, but impossible to avoid with the near-constant priapism noted so often in Sherlock’s charts.

The thought of what’s been done to his brilliant, beloved detective makes John want to shout. He can’t imagine what it cost Sherlock, to be stripped down and reshaped into such a base creature, a man who’s so long considered his body mere transport for thought. And it’s not just the terrible carnality his chaste detective has been exposed to, but the endless hours of waiting and mindlessly serving. For one with such an abhorrence of boredom, Sherlock couldn’t have endured these on his own.

John has seen enough trauma on and off the battlefield to know how cleverly the human mind morphs to protect itself and he knows the exception of Sherlock’s intellect. He fits all the pieces he has so far of what’s happened to his tortured detective and makes his own deductions. He believes he knows what he must do and acts.

The words and his tone are stilted at first.

“Easy, boy. Easy… You’re a good one, aren’t you?” Ignoring the way Mycroft stiffens beside him, he continues, encouraged when the body below his stilled hand stops twisting about and settles for simply trembling instead.

“Yeah, you’re a good pup. I can tell. Must be scared though, huh, Fella?” John keeps talking and, even if he doesn’t understand the words any more, Sherlock responds to the tone. The whining lowers in volume and begins to follow the rapid cadence of his ragged breathing.

Slowly John lowers his hand, talking soft, pet talk all the while.

“Everything must be so confusing…” John fights the urge to call Sherlock by the same name as his captors to make a connection. His mind searches frantically for something close in sound to "Libu" but far from the Estonian whore Sherlock had been dubbed.

“Everything’s different now, huh, Lovely?”

It’s an endearment that’s so often sat unsaid on the tip of his tongue, knowing how Sherlock would respond, and despite Sherlock's terrible state, it’s never felt more urgent than this moment.

Fingertips graze so very lightly against the edge of Sherlock’s sharp jaw. The pitch of the whining grows higher, but the pleading eyes that shred John’s soul drop closed. He exhales a shaky breath when Sherlock lifts his slender, sweat-slicked throat to press jaw against palm.

John averts his eyes to Mycroft only long enough to make his point. “Yeah, I’d be scared too if a bunch of idiots trussed me up.” His hand never ceases its soft petting.

“John…”

Mycroft’s voice calls its warning the instant John’s other hand drops to the fleece lined cuff on Sherlock’s wrist. He stops however, when Sherlock stiffens at the sound of his voice.

“Trust me,” John whispers. His fingers continue to caress Sherlock.  

Unsure of whom John’s words are meant for, Mycroft continues to warn; only now his tone is much softer.

“Really, John, I wouldn’t do that… As I said, he’s… Unmanageable.”

“Of course he is, Mycroft,” John glares up at him, but his words all still sound like praise. “Dogs aren’t meant to be confined like this."

He’s sure that most of his Sherlock is in here, locked away somewhere deep in his palace. But right now he needs to befriend, to shepherd, this creaturely bit of Sherlock’s psyche, split off to animate the man's transport in his absence.

Properly cared for, this hound Sherlock, John hopes, will lead them back to rest of him in time.

“People either,” he adds a moment later, thinking about how, even now, in his effort to help him, Mycroft still has no sense of what his baby brother really needs.

“But you’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you, Lovely,” John croons as he leaves off his petting to bring both hands to Sherlock’s plush shackles. Sherlock’s eyes open and fix with animal intensity on his fingers as they ease leather through steel buckles. He trembles with anticipation.

“Stay.”

The word is said not loudly, but solidly. John pauses only a moment for a hand to leave leather and press against skin, reinforcing the command. Gray eyes dart up toward the sound of authority and Sherlock whimpers, but he doesn’t move even when his wrist is finally freed.

“So good, sweet  pup,” John soothes as he slides one hand lightly over heaving ridges of ribs.

Disconcerted by the scarred pink lines left by grasping paws that stripe Sherlock’s lean sides, he shifts his hand lower and lets it rest lightly on his hip. Warm eyes fix an alpha gaze on hound Sherlock, as his other hand very slowly moves down to undo the straps binding thin ankles and untangle damp sheets from long limbs. Throughout this whole process, John mutters soft praises in between repeated commands to “settle” and “stay.” When he finishes, only one remaining wrist cuff leashes Sherlock to the bed.

“Give us a sweet, eh, Mycroft.”

“Em.. What?” As if Mycroft wasn’t already thrown off by John’s unorthodox response to his brother, this new twist completely flummoxes him.

John turns, meeting his stunned eyes and offers a strained grin.

“Oh, come on, you must have at least a toffee or something on you somewhere. Sherlock wouldn’t tease you so, if you didn’t.”

It’s just enough to bring Mycroft back to himself. He re-dons his standard dour face and reaches into an inner pocket of his sports coat to pull out a foil-wrapped confection.

“Open it up for us, would you?”

Mycroft does as he’s asked, noticing that Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on him now, and while there’s anxiousness there, it’s the first time since his rescue they aren’t filled with abject terror.

“Can you give it to him?” With clinical detachment John’s on to alleviating Sherlock of his soiled nappy. “Slowly…” He adds as Mycroft steps closer and holds out the sweet in his hand. “You’ll have to feed it to him.”

“Cause, good boys get treats, don’t they, Lovely.”

Diaper dropped to the floor, John strokes Sherlock’s bare hip. “Easy, there… Stay…”

Sherlock’s whole body is wound like a spring, anticipating the candy and John’s astonished that Mycroft obviously hasn’t tried working with his brother’s conditioning before. It was all right there in the video, after all.  His eyes shift from the scene of Mycroft’s blatant discomfort as Sherlock’s salivating tongue hungrily licks up the sweet from his palm, down to his detective’s equally drooling cock.

In addition to the powder-coated redness of Sherlock’s previously diapered skin, his balls look heavy and swollen, cock dark and furious, slick with spilled want. John’s brow rises as Sherlock’s hips spasm and his dick twitches, leaking even more as he worries his treat.

“Mycroft, when was the last time Sherlock released.” He switches to his physician's voice for a tic as he looks back up to see Mycroft wiping his fingers on a monogrammed handkerchief. The blankness that meets his gaze is answer enough.

John’s way of talking to Sherlock, the way his little brother responded to the treat, the way Sherlock’s waiting now, despite how obviously he’s struggling to be still. The pieces come together in a moment and Mycroft realizes just how wrongly he’s been going about things. His expression becomes pained. 

“He was rutting up against everything,” he stumbles now, regretfully acknowledging his error. “The doctors said he shouldn’t be encouraged. That was one of the reasons we restrained him.”

“Fuck!” John exhales a low angry breath. Given how Sherlock’s been trained over the course of his captivity, these last weeks must have been torturous. Hearing the anger in his tones, Sherlock grows stiff and shivering beneath his hand. 

“Ah, Lovely, I’m not mad at you,” he reassures, rubbing a light circle on a quivering flank.

“Mycroft, maybe you should go get some tea for us. I'm going to settle Sherlock, meanwhile.”

Of course there are servants, Mycroft need only open the door and tea would appear in a matter of minutes, but he understands now what John’s offering him here and he’s grateful. As he backs away he watches John handle Sherlock. A pang of envy ricochets within him at how openly the man is able to care.

“Up you get, Sweetheart.” With infinitely gentle hands John helps ease Sherlock up onto his knees on the bed. Though on all fours now, with the drugs and all the lying in, Sherlock’s so weak he wobbles. He shifts and presses his sweaty forehead against John’s belly to stabilize.

“That’s it… Such a good one.”  John pulls Sherlock tighter to him needing some stabilization himself.

Staring down at the broad shoulders below him, John sees freckles now where the skin was previously only alabaster. Surgical fingers sweep the hair away from the base of Sherlock’s neck and he traces the lingering line where Sherlock’s collar sat, visible still after all these weeks inside.

_Iraq or Afghanistan?_

John imagines Sherlock outdoors, pale skin subjected to hot Texas sun. Facing down on all fours, of course, because there’s no sign of sun left on his throat.

It pains him that he can see these things now… The vision Sherlock’s shared with him.

Tentatively hound Sherlock nuzzles the belly before him. When a hand doesn’t smack his nose for this touch, but instead strokes through greasy curls, the relief is so great he makes a noise caught somewhere between a bark and a sob.

John’s so very grateful when he hears the door click closed behind him at last. Tears fill his eyes and he matches the sound. Because back in the car, earlier, Mycroft wasn't wrong in his aborted intimations: he and Sherlock were lovers. Clear, and on Sherlock's side, remarkably blunt declarations had been made, though in other realms, while not entirely virginal, Sherlock was so very tender, so very shy. 

Their intercourse had been held in the soft brush of fingers passing beakers. It was the tuck of the odd curl behind the other's ear, the press hips, reaching over one another for some item in the kitchen cupboards. It had been difficult, yes, but it had also been enough for John, because he loved as much as he wanted. 

He'd waited, knowing that every touch they shared was leading to something more.

Someday.

But not this... Never like this.

He smooths his hand down Sherlock’s back, unsurprised to see his lover's taxed arms fold and the unruly dark head pull away, forehead dropping down to rest against the mattress. Leaning over, John presses a kiss to the back of his beloved’s head, even as his hand slips under Sherlock’s still-raised hips to wrap around his cock. Every touch careful even as his chest burns with barely contained fury at what's been stolen from Sherlock and him both.

“Shhhhh, Lovely…” John’s voice stays soft despite the choking catch of it. “It’s alright, Sweetheart. I’ve got you now.”

The low keen starts in Sherlock’s throat before John even begins stroking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically the end of part one for this fic. I had it all as one long chapter and then decided to split it into these three. I am working on part two now which will likely be the same, so expect another three chapters in the relatively near future. Some of part II will be going into Sherlock's POV if you're interested.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	4. Biscuits and Blankets

He’s been restlessly twitching for hours; mind caught in a loop of recollection and regret.

They gave him a pillow, what else had they expected him to do with it?

Libu knows he did wrong not asking permission, should have waited before starting. But he’d been without for so long and it's been agony. His lonely, bitch hole clenches in want, having had absolutely nothing to fill it. Not since his last world ended and he was taken away.

He’d just been knotted when the violence erupted. He'd howled in fear and pain when the gunshots frightened his stud and the mastiff he was tied to tried to bolt, pulling him backwards until one more loud report stilled his canine master permanently.

Libu’s thighs quiver with the memory of the other dog’s sudden heaviness, dragging his ass down with him. Torn more than a little, but not released. Then all the voices and hands, loud and angry, surrounding him, trying to separate them. How quickly after, his dead stud’s knot shrunk and slipped from his cunt.

“Free” all his new human captors kept saying over and over… but the sound had no meaning to him and whatever it meant, if this is what it portended, he would have lashed out more, so that they’d have been forced to stop him as well.

Sweating and miserable, simultaneously so achingly full and excruciatingly empty, his simple dog mind still can’t understand the extremity of this terrible punishment. If he can just figure out how to pay for his transgression, if his new owner will forgive, he’ll never, ever do it again.

Not if this is what happens… The stillness, the lack.

He thinks all this, but not in the way one imagines since he’s lost almost all of his words now.

Tears of frustration fill his eyes and his unhappiness burrs in his whine-raw throat. 

The way he’s been bound, even those words he still has and knows to say with his body like _“please”_ and _“Master”_ and _“yes,”_ not _“no,”_ never _“no,”_ … are inaccessible.

His desperation mounts when, at his sounds, his attendant merely shifts his gaze from the game of solitaire he’s been playing and peers at him over his i-pad.

It’s so painful. Even the broad man’s anger, how he hurt, is preferable to this new keeper’s impassivity.

His soft crying is cut short as sharp ears catch the sound of the door opening.

Libu’s anxiety grows and he pulls at his bindings watching his keeper rise and leave him, replaced, as another man steps up to the bed. 

_Stranger._

His thrashing gets wilder. Not once since taken from his master has a new face meant anything pleasant.

The ache of missing grips Libu anew. He’s been lost, so lost, and so hollow without his old masters, his studs. Then there’s a voice. He recognizes it immediately and it fills him with dread.

“Sherlock… John’s come to see you.”

 It’s not just that he looks and smells so wrong, the chubby one, his new owner, that makes things so miserable. It’s that no matter how much he’s tried to show he’s a good bitch, fully understands his place, what his purpose is, somehow still, in every open act of submission, he fails. 

No matter what he’s done, nothing pleases.

Living for praises, he despairs, hearing only disappointment in the tone of each of the chubby one’s stiff syllables. And when the man stands by him, as he’s locked here in his punishment, Libu can feel the vibrations. His new owner’s body hums with unhappiness and it terrifies, because the consequence of a discontent master is…

 _Please_ …

If he’ll only give him one more chance, Libu knows he can become a perfect pet. He was before. It’s what he is, what he does. He renews his struggles, wanting to make the chubby man understand, to try and present himself yet again. But the ties hold him too well, always, unfortunately.

He pants with exertion, tongue lolling out. His old master used to relish this sound and it’s not like he has that many others to offer anymore.

_Please. Please…_

So intent on gaining his owner’s favor, Libu has all but forgotten the man standing next to him now. At least until he’s reached for. An open hand nears his face and he cringes inwards, awaiting the blow that will set his nose stinging. He begs wordlessly and his eyes widen in wonder when the approaching hand stops without striking.

Frantic, he darts quick glances up, and the way the stranger studies him makes his bucking bitch-heart stumble. He looks too long and the new man catches him. Their eyes lock and Libu feels his bladder release. He whines louder in apology.

_Please… Sorry… Please…_

It’s not his fault, he wants to tell him. His poor body was already bursting and this gaze is just too penetrating. He was past full to begin with, always holding himself as long as he can, but they won’t take him out, no matter how he petitions. He keeps squirming, trying to escape from under the intensity of the light eyes looking down at him and from the uncomfortable, hot wetness he’s trapped in, already cooling against his miserable skin.

He stills in an instant, however, when the stranger begins speaking.

“Easy, boy. Easy… You’re a good one aren’t you?

Not unusual, most of the words don’t make sense. But the tone is so intimate, so perfect; just the way Master used to sound when his pet had done well.

Hope, new and heavy, wells in Libu's chest and he shivers under the weight of it.

“Yeah, you’re a good pup. I can tell. Must be scared though, huh, Fella?”

Libu hears the word “good,” twice now, directed at him and so wonderfully said. His trembling increases as he struggles to merit this.

This man… _Good_ … _Yes…_ _Please…_ He can be so very good if they’ll let him. Libu wants nothing else in the world but to do this, do anything to keep this man speaking to him in this way.

“Everything must be so confusing…”

The bitch trembles, basking in the sounds of happy human.

“Everything’s so different now, huh, Lovely?”

The name is different too, but perhaps it’s the new man’s strange accent. Even so, the intonation and his eyes tell Libu this is his title now.  If he has any doubt about this at all, it evaporates as the man stakes his claim fully with the barest brush of fingers along his jaw.

So the chubby man, the unhappy one...

_Not… Master._

The relief that his true owner has finally arrived overwhelms. He makes the transition instantly. _A bitch takes what its given_ : this inescapable rule has been etched into his every fiber.

But this... this is...  _Good._

Closing his eyes against the tears of gratitude that flood them, as much as his bindings allow, Lovely presses up into his new master’s hand, committing himself completely.

* * *

Not wishing to witness Sherlock’s settling, over an hour passes before Mycroft returns with the tea.

The first place his eyes fall upon is the empty hospital bed. The flicker of the fire John has started in the hearth catches his attention next. 

Seeing the back of a blond head resting above the curl of the couch, he steps forward into the room. Under other circumstances the scene he encounters would be the epitome of genteel tranquility: man comfortably ensconced in the couch reading, tuckered pet curled at his ankles.

Only here, the sleeping hound is his naked brother.

It takes all Mycroft’s will not to flinch at the sight. He moves in and sets the tray down on the low table in front of the couch. The service rattles a bit, but even so, Sherlock’s eyes don’t even slit.

John closes the book and sets it aside as Mycroft joins him on the sofa. Noting the tray’s contents, blond brows rise: there's a beaker, a fine china cup and saucer, and a small bowl.

Something akin to admiration stirs in him at Mycroft’s insight and his adaptability. But then one doesn’t get to be the English government without these traits. 

Watching Mycroft pour, John shifts almost unconsciously, hand drifting down to stroke Sherlock’s dark head. Steadying, on the chance that he wakens. But his spent detective doesn’t even twitch.

“Completely knackered,” he whispers. His hand leaves Sherlock’s hair to reach for the proffered mug.

“Ummm… Yes.” Disturbing as this all is, Mycroft is amazed at how different the room feels, the static of Sherlock’s terrified, frantic energy stilled now. “I don’t think I’ve seen him so peaceful, drugged even, since he arrived here.”

He silently notes that not only is his brother sleeping but that the sheen of sweat and sickness seems to have been wiped from Sherlock’s skin too. A desire seizes him to punch John in the nose for just how effective he is. Instead, however, he settles back into the couch, gaze fixed on Sherlock.

Rather than say anything in response, John hums into his cup. He doubts that Mycroft would relish hearing that he had to rub Sherlock off three times before he showed any signs of relief. Four, if he counts the first eruption that occurred a mere three strokes in. 

When Mycroft speaks again, John's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock didn't even wilt at all in between bouts. Even in the heyday of his randy adolescence, he never had that kind of stamina.

“So, where do we go from here, then?” Mycroft’s skips sugaring his tea but does take a biscuit. Well-earned, he thinks, mentally adding ten minutes to tomorrow's treadmill time, nonetheless.

John sips, considering the question. It’s a good one. What happened tonight was somewhat reasoned, but largely intuitive. He’s grateful, so grateful it worked, but he knows they’re going to need real strategy to move things… Sherlock… forward.

“No more restraints for a start.”

“Agreed.” Mycroft mumbles into his teacup.

“His arms are a mess.” 

Even padded, Sherlock’s pulled so much his wrists are bruised and raw, but Mycroft knows this isn't the only thing John’s referring to. “He wouldn’t eat properly, so he’s been getting most of his fluids and nutrition intravenously. The doctors have been porting him for the IV as you likely guessed, but his veins would collapse or he'd somehow manage to catch the intake on something, even restrained.”

Mycroft’s weary enough at this point he could almost curl up right beside Sherlock. "His last one came out hours before you arrived. He was scheduled for a food pump to be surgically fitted tomorrow.”

“That’s why you finally decided to call on me?” Though he still feels it strongly, there’s no anger in John’s voice. No need for it. He can see that now Mycroft’s realized his error in handling Sherlock his regret is already crushing.

“Well, we can start working on the eating bit right away. I mean, given how he was before, it’s not likely to be so much different.” Only it is, John realizes, despite his weak joke.

“He’s going to need care, exercise, grooming.” He leans over and takes a biscuit himself. His forehead creases as he thoughtfully crunches. “A collar will make him feel more secure… something light and very soft though.

“I don’t know about a leash yet. Hope we don't need it. Knee pads are going to be a must until we get him walking again.”

It’s astonishing to Mycroft how serious John is; even more that he’s willing to allow him to do this this, plans to go along with it fully, for Sherlock.

“Stairs aren’t going to be easy for him to navigate on all fours, Mycroft. Is there someplace we can stay on the main level? A couple connecting rooms and a bath would be best.”

“Nothing that would be ready for you this minute, but by tomorrow there will be.”

John nods, again both pleased and surprised that despite his chagrin, Mycroft’s not balked at any of this yet. “Good, probably be best not to move him tonight anyways. I can draw up a schedule for weaning him of all the shit he's on.

“I’ll make a list too of other things that we’ll be needing. Litter pans, cushions.”

The mention of cushions makes Mycroft grimace and for a moment he stops listening. His mind fills with the memory of Sherlock’s mad pillow humping and he wishes, not for the first time, that he had his sibling’s capacity for deletion.

“Eh, excuse me. What was that John?”

 “I said you better order up a lot of those sweets too. I have the feeling we’re going to need them.”

After setting his mug down back on the tray, John places a hand on the side of the bowl Mycroft filled. Satisfied with the temperature, he adds milk and stirs in some sugar. Not too much, considering the likelihood of many candied weeks ahead.

“Hey, Sweetheart… Lovely...” With a few light tousles to the dark head at his feet, John rouses Sherlock.

Sleepy gray eyes blink open. They widen seeing the chubby one sitting so close by, but Master’s soothing hand settles him quickly. He perks a bit, watching as a bowl lowers, is set in between his lightly curled forepaws.

Leaning forward, Lovely sniffs its contents curiously. He hesitates, recognizing the scent. They tried to force this on him before, but presented in this way it doesn't seem anywhere near so hateful.

“Come on, Lovely. Drink up. You’ve lost quite a bit of fluid and you need to stay hydrated.”

There's a command in there, amidst all those words. Lovely hears the urging, and yet Master’s tone is so warm. He wants to please him. Anything to be allowed to stay as he is, here on the floor beside him. Lowering his head, he extends his tongue and tentatively  laps at the liquid. It’s pleasantly warm and wonderfully flavored.

“There’s a good fella.”

Master’s voice and the gentle hand on his shoulder cheer him on. He drinks the bowl’s entire contents and is rewarded with a rub behind an ear that would normally make his cock weep; only he’s still so gloriously spent.

Bowl empty, Master pleased, Lovely lowers his head, nuzzling his new owner's ankles in gratitude, thanking him again for his mercy. He presses his nose against stout boots and his tongue flickers out to submissively groom.

Above Sherlock, both John and Mycroft stiffen and their satisfaction at seeing him take to his tea evaporates the instant he begins to lazily lap at John’s shoes. Before Mycroft can verbalize his upset, John quickly, but gently slips his hand down to cup Sherlock’s chin, lifting it lightly.

“No need for that, Love.”

John frowns, but allows hound Sherlock to shift his attentions, tongue slicking his fingers for a moment before distracting with a bit of biscuit.

Though he doesn’t seemed as interested in this as he is in John’s fingers, Sherlock nibbles its edge before gently taking it into his mouth.  He chews it slowly, his exhaustion obvious. Then with one final lick of appreciation to the back of John’s hand Sherlock drops his head back down and curls up again.

Resting a cheek atop John’s boot, gray eyes, weary and wary, flicker overto Mycroft for the merest of moments before he settles back with a sigh and heavy lids slide shut.

Hound Sherlock’s dismissal stings no less than the old Sherlock’s did, though Mycroft understands the reason for both. He’s been more than a bit "not good" but pledges he will do better. And he can start now by getting things rolling downstairs, making sure that everything’s prepared.

John picks Sherlock’s tea bowl up without disturbing his sleeping detective and sets it back on the on the tray. Through the leather of his shoe, he feels Sherlock shiver. Even with a fire going the big room is nowhere near the warmth of Texas. Carefully he slips his foot out from under Sherlock’s dark head and replaces it with a pillow from the couch. A handy throw is added moments later, draped over bare shoulders.

In his sleep Sherlock whimpers softly, but snuggles in.

“He’s in good hands, so there’s no reason for me to linger.” Mycroft startles, realizing he’s said this out loud. He must be more worn than he’s aware. He rises and picks up the service. “If you want to leave that list of things you need outside the door later, I’ll make sure it’s seen to. Or you can text it. I'll leave a number.”

John nods, then stretches. “I’ll get that done right off, then maybe read a bit more. Probably sleep here right on the couch, if Sherlock doesn’t wake back up in the meantime.

"Don’t want to disturb him again if I can avoid it.” There’s a hit of sheepishness in his voice.

The bed is not ten feet from the couch but Mycroft understands John's need for proximity. He finds himself wondering for the merest of moments, which of the two men before him is actually the more loyal hound? Watching John reach his hand down to straighten Sherlock’s blanket, the answer is not so easily determined. 

He shifts his thoughts over as he goes and pulls a tablet and pen from the desk. He jots a number down before he nods and leaves the room.

Yes, Sherlock is in good hands.

Closing the door behind him, Mycroft sighs. He doesn't know how John will fare but thinks that once he finishes attending to a few details, his brother might not be the only Holmes to find peaceful sleep in this long night's last hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. So many hits on this story in such a short time- I appreciate the interest. Thank you too for all the kind kudos!  
> Hope you this new installment pleases. The pace of Sherlock's healing will pick up quite a bit in the next chapters.
> 
> Feral


	5. Bindings

Lovely kneels unabashedly naked on the rug in front of the hearth, pressing up into the large hands toweling his newly-washed hair.

The fuzzy fabric slips from John’s fingers and Sherlock instantly nuzzles into them, licking appreciatively. Cupping the sharp jaw in one hand, John lifts the dark head below him. The licking stops, but a bit of pink tongue remains visible at the corner of Sherlock’s slightly open mouth.

 With his other hand, after sweeping back unruly, damp bangs, John draws a single finger down smooth forehead until it reaches the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. He pauses to circle the light-pink scar etched there, left behind by the raw-rubbing muzzle he saw in some of the videos.

There’s a matching mark just underneath Sherlock’s chin.

Tending to his re-configured lover these last few days, John’s become quite the cartographer: there’s not an inch of his detective he hasn’t surveyed. Unfortunately what he’s discovered is a landscape marred with reminders of infinite, intentional sufferings. 

Neck, hands, knees, shoulders, sides. Not to mention the still visible trauma to Sherlock’s most intimate place. While all gall him, the one that sticks with him most is the ragged line that drags dangerously around half of Sherlock’s testicular sac, where it appears someone made an amateur and, thankfully, halfhearted attempt to castrate him.

Lovely’s not really conscious of any of the scars he bears. The past haunts him, assuredly, but he lives for the present and the only thing on his mind right now at all, is the glorious sensation of kind hands. He tries not to wiggle in pleasure, holding himself like a good bitch should, allowing Master’s careful fingers to roam over him.

“Okay, Lovely. Let’s get you ready now, huh. Big day today.”

When the wonderful hands leave him, Lovely huffs, instantly missing them.

There's a gentle asking tap and he lifts his paw obediently. Gray eyes blink open and he watches Master slip a fingerless glove with a padded palm over it. 

When Master gives a light rub to stiff fingers before releasing his paw, Lovely whimpers his thanks. Before he’d forgotten their existence, stepping on his hands had been one of the broad one’s favorite punishments. Bones cracked more than once when he was caught trying to use them, and because of this, they often ache terribly.

After the gloves have gone on to aid Sherlock’s calloused palms, knee pads are next. John slips from the chair to kneel beside his human-hound. He pulls these carefully onto compliant limbs, marveling again at Sherlock’s stillness. 

It’s not that hound-Sherlock doesn’t move. In fact, unless asleep and dreamless, his body is in constant motion: he trembles and shivers, winces and slinks, rubs and nuzzles. But in the midst of all these, he also constantly submits.

Given how much the slightest touch used to rile, John can’t get over how passive Sherlock remains through all his attendance: feeding, “dressing,” doctoring. When he settles him, which is often, despite Sherlock’s obvious and still near-constant arousal, there’s not a twitch or a thrust as he’s handled.  Likewise, being placed in the tub to receive the enemas he’s needed has only been met with a helpful lifting of hips.

This blind tolerance is the least likely response John’s old Sherlock would have had and it tears him to see it. Although ultimately, this makes caring for Sherlock so much easier, even a little bit of fight would be heartening.

“Got something new for you today. Mycroft picked it out.” Setting one of Sherlock’s long legs back down, John turns and pulls a box from behind the chair. “Let’s see how he did, eh?”

 Lovely glances at the box but looks away quickly, uninterested: he really only has eyes for Master. 

* * *

 

Climbing the stairs to his brother’s room, Mycroft feels his nerves tighten with each ascending step. Today they’re introducing Lovely/Sherlock to where he’ll be staying now and likely, well into the unforeseeable future.

It took for John four days to determine Sherlock had gained enough strength to navigate the manor stairs on his own. A week before he announced they were really ready to move.

Not that Mycroft’s minded terribly.

In the end, this delay has been for the best; given him the chance to make all the necessary accommodations for his brother’s new quarters. Especially since John’s list of requests continually lengthened the more time he spent with Sherlock. And seeing the way John’s approached things, the thought he puts into each and every aspects of Sherlock’s care, into his new home, while he’d never admit it, this has grown Mycroft’s grudging admiration considerably.

Yes, he understands far more fully now than ever why his brother found brave, blunt Captain Watson so interesting.

Raising his hand to knock on the closed door, Mycroft hesitates. One more drug has left Sherlock’s system in the past days too, and while it’s rendered him brighter-eyed, it’s also left him more anxious. He strains his ears listening for any sounds that John might be in the midst of yet another “settling” before he taps.

John opens the door, his smile earnest, voice chipper. “Morning, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sees in the tightness around his eyes, however, and understands John too is apprehensive about how Sherlock is going to handle his shifting.

 “I’ve come to accompany you and Sherlock to your new place. I hope you’ll find it adequate.”

 It’s a classic bit of English understatement Mycroft’s employing. Rather than keep Sherlock in the manor, he's completely reconfigured the old gamekeeper's cottage just past the stables for his brother. It will give Sherlock both space and privacy. And he's spared no expense as he’s filled each of John’s requests for its interior. After all, what’s the point of wealth and privilege if one doesn’t exercise it on occasion?

Plus, with everything Sherlock’s been through, he wants his brother to be comfortable, or as comfortable as one in Sherlock’s position can be.

“I’m sure it will be perfect.” John assures stepping back to so he can enter.

Mycroft’s eyes scan the room. Since John’s come, the curtains are always drawn at first light and left open until dusk; windows open allowing the scents of early fall entry.

Neat today with everything packed, normally the desk has been covered with papers, John’s laptop sitting open. He spends a goodly number of hours researching new ways to ease Sherlock and careful logging of all that he does, particularly noting anything that looks like progress.

A quick glance down draws Mycroft’s brows up when he sees John’s gray-eyed shadow is absent. Since being freed from the bed, unless he’s been told to stay, Sherlock is normally instantly at heel the moment John moves.

“Where is Sher… er, Lovely, then?”

John sighs. “He knows something’s up now and he’s nervous.” Even in his canine form, while Sherlock’s mind might be simple, he’s far from stupid.

Another quick sweep of the room and Mycroft locates Sherlock, skulking behind the far side of the couch. He doesn’t stare at his baby brother, however, but looks away quickly. Reading up on canine social behaviors advised that the best way to make hound-Sherlock comfortable when he initially arrives, is to ignore him.

Mycroft finds the advice effective but ironic.

“You know we could still give him something to take off the edge. It might make things easier.”

A blond head shakes negative at the suggestion. “I don’t want any more drugs in his system than is absolutely necessary. He’ll be good. Won’t you, Lovely?”

Seeing who their visitor is, Lovely is already padding cautiously forward, having learned that lately the chubby one’s arrival now more often brings good things.

A flash of approval shines on Mycroft’s face for a moment when all of Sherlock becomes visible.

The custom-made coat he ordered fits well. Designed like a livestock blanket, it covers Sherlock’s back and hangs down his sides, but leaves his backside and belly bare allowing for maximum movement and necessary bodily functions. The padded silk drape will be soft against Sherlock’s oversensitive skin and keep the country chill away until his brother is ready for regular clothing.

Dropping to his knees to make himself less imposing, Mycroft is hard pressed not to show his pleasure when Sherlock comes all the way to him with almost no hesitance. He offers a candy while he inspects the silken chest harness with straps that connect at the shoulders and under Sherlock’s arms, holding the jacket in place. Additional loose bindings circle under his lean thighs to keep things from slipping.

“Purple always did suit you.”

Something stirs in Mycroft and softens when his brother’s response is to draw forward and snuffle into his chest looking for another treat. Lifting his eyes to John, Mycroft sees that sentiment has been noted. Blessedly the man has the decency to remain silent and glance away.

Rising he frowns, watching John pull a thin leather lead from his pants’ pocket.

“We should get going now, yeah?”

Both men hold their breath, when John “clicks”the clasp of the lead,  locking it on to the supple, black leather collar around Sherlock’s neck, but nothing happens.

Or not quite nothing. There’s no explosion of limbs, no wild thrashing.  Instead, Sherlock glances nervously between the two men before his eyes drop away. He trembles but falls immediately into heel. Not even a questioning look about where they might be leading him.

Though it’s for Sherlock’s safety, having just leashed his lover, binding Sherlock to him, seems so damnably wrong. John scratches the back of his own head uncomfortably before bending to scratch Sherlock lightly as well.

“Well, that was easy enough.” 

“We haven’t left the room yet.” Mycroft reminds.

“Right.” With a soft cluck of tongue and an even softer tug on the lead the trio heads off.

Lovely keeps his eyes low, his paws moving forward.  He shows no interest in the spaces they pass through; it’s not a bitch’s business. Instead he focuses on how much more comfortable the gait of his atrophied limbs are with the new adornments Master’s put on him.

  _Master…_

The feet moving before him support Lovely’s whole world now. Never, as long as hound-Sherlock's known consciousness, has one treated him so mercifully. And while the terror is building in Lovely’s chest that this is going to end very shortly, he owes it to Master to endure whatever’s coming like a good bitch. Make the man proud.

It's unendurable to think he might make Master unhappy.

As he stumbles and slides down the steps, he wonders what kind of stud his master has gotten. Because, of course, this must be where they're going, why they have left the room.

Maybe there will be more than one.

His anxiety mounts as they continue moving forward, knowing he’s not been adequately stretched, that his bitch hole has nothing more than the morning’s salving to slick him. His body suddenly shudders, remembering the first time his second canine master, the mastiff, took him unprepared under the kitchen table .

_Hurt. So much hurt._

Master’s light tongue "click" snaps Lovely back to attention. He picks up his pace though his frail limbs are burning with exertion now. Lifting his gaze, he sees down the long polished hallway there’s a door standing open. The framed sky beyond it is gray, a storm on the horizon.

* * *

 

Outside, a four seater golf-cart waits at the base of the manor’s steps, Anthea ready to drive them.

By this point Sherlock’s sweat has soaked through his new jacket. He’s trembling so hard he looks on the verge of collapse but he hasn’t pulled back at all. The only sounds offered have been a few quiet whines.

Mycroft’s brow wrinkles in concern as John lifts Sherlock onto the floor of the back seat.

“Is he really so physically compromised?”

The moment John climbs in and sits, Sherlock all but curls up on top of his feet.

“I’m sure our little walk tired him a bit, but I think it’s more that he’s terrified.”

He pats the cushion beside him. Sherlock glances at the beckoning hand and then to John’s face. He rocks back in forth for several seconds, caught in indecision, before slowly clambering up onto the bench. John has been trying for days to get Sherlock to join him on couch and this is a first. His elation shatters, however, when Sherlock presses tight against him and tries to nose his head under his arm to hide.

“So it seems,” Mycroft's forehead furrows further. He takes his seat next to Anthea and with a nod, the cart crawls down the drive towards the stables.

Pressed against Master, Lovely’s heart pounds. Car rides are never a good thing.

He doesn’t remember the ones that brought him to his new master, he was so heavily sedated. But the ones he does recall… trussed and stuffed in the trunk. It didn’t happen often, but every outing with his old master ended in suffering. Strange hands touching, pinching, spanking.  Strange studs, so many, rough, unrelenting.

Lovely spent days in his dog bed after these trips, moving only when old Master or his regular stud demanded.

“Hey, pup. Come on, Sweetheart.” A strong arm lifts and resettles to gather him in tighter. A cool hand sweeps over his sweating brow. “I thought you’d like a bit of an adventure. Been inside so long.” The tone soothes and Lovely’s eyes fill with tears of gratitude that Master’s not angry with his bitch’s cowardice. 

It’s strange, he thinks, before new Master came he was aching to be taken, to be rent. Spent hours whining, pleading for the chubby one to bring a stud to fill him. Leave him sticky and leaking. 

But now…. Still a bitch... But not nearly so empty...

_Please... Not ready... Don't make me... Please..._

Lovely's tears increase and he can't help but bark out, overwhelmed. It's a rough sound, remarkably akin to a sob.

John’s distressed. He knew that moving Sherlock wasn’t going to be easy, especially without sedation. But he wanted him to be conscious. Too many times already Sherlock has been set to sleep, only to wake up in entirely unfamiliar surroundings.

But this… He can feel hound-Sherlock’s entirely too-human tears on the back of his hand, and that sound…

They chose the cart because of its openness, hoping that being able to see the grounds as they passed through them might ease Sherlock, or maybe spark some kind of recognition. Now John worries that this is too much, too fast.

“How much further, Mycroft?”

They’re just beyond the stables.

“Not too. There’s a turn coming up. It’s about fifty meters past that.”

“Can we stop?”

The cart halts in an instant and John untangles himself from the quaking creature beside him.

“If you don’t mind. The ground’s not too wet and I think I’ll walk Sherlock…er, Lovely… the rest of the way. You two go ahead and open things up for us.”

Mycroft has no desire to leave his brother behind in this state, but nods. Lips pressed tight.

“Hey, Lovely. Come on, Sweetheart. Out you get. We’re going to stretch those long legs of yours a bit more." John helps Sherlock slip off the seat and out of the cart. "I'm going to get you so good and worn out you'll sleep through supper tonight."

He remains standing beside his huddled human-hound until the cart trundles around the path’s damp curve. Once it’s out of sight, John sinks to his knees and cups Sherlock’s chin in his palms. 

It pains him to see Sherlock wince, obviously expecting a blow when his broad thumbs only shift to gently wipe the tears from anguished eyes. John dips his head down until he and Sherlock are touching foreheads. One hand lifts to undo the leash’s clasp.

There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to assure but words fail him.

In the end, he settles instead on simply pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s hot brow with a whispered "Sorry" before he rises again. Leash tossed into the bushes, hands jammed in pants’ pockets, John starts off down the road at a slow, limping amble.

He’s not gone ten paces when he hears Sherlock catch up, glances down to offer a sad smile at the flash of purple crawling alongside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to all my commenters for your excellent feedback and suggestions. I'll admit that this will be going on a bit longer than I had planned. I am seeing nine chapter now instead of the intended six. I am rather liking hound-Sherlock. I thank Geometry for the games keeper's cottage suggestion. It was perfect and without it, poor Sherlock would have had to stay locked up in the manor.
> 
> Hope you continue to enjoy this little spinoff.


	6. Berth

John watches Sherlock surreptitiously. His detective likewise, glances up every few moments of their ramble for visual assurance he’s still nearby, but otherwise keeps his dark head down, snuffling at everything. Actions so much like a real hound it’s surreal.

Given this, it should hardly surprise John, although it does, when Sherlock moves over to a bush and squats to piss. Stricken with misplaced sense of propriety, despite how intimate he is with all Sherlock’s functions now, before John can avert his eyes Sherlock catches him.

While he’s been doing well so with his litter-boxes, the expression on Sherlock’s face tells John he’s just realized he’s not sure if what he’s  just done is allowed. The fearful apprehension reminds that, to hound-Sherlock, he’s the “alpha” now. And after all Sherlock’s been through, John can’t imagine how frightening it must be, trying to figure out what all the new rules are.

“Here, Lovely.” He pats his thigh and tries not to wince at the ache that’s awakened there.

Hearing the calm tone, Sherlock scampers over, or does as much an approximation of “scamper” as his trembling, taxed limbs allow.

“You’re a good boy. No harm doing your business outside.”

The relief of Sherlock’s face and the full body wiggle that accompanies the praise breaks John’s heart a little bit more. He reaches down to brush Sherlock’s wild forelock back.

“Good for a man to piss outdoors every now and again. Lord knows, I’ve marked my own share of bushes over the years.”

“Maybe, you could try not to do that in front of Mycroft, though. Eh?” He steps out again, Sherlock shuffling after. “Cause I’m pretty sure your brother would have quite a different opinion on the matter.”

Lovely cocks his head slightly at this long string of sounds and while he’s been picking up a few more words lately, all he really gets is that everything is still okay, even though Master looks a bit uneasy.

Thus assured, he drops his head down and resumes his sniffing.  The wet, green scents here stir him in a way he can’t understand, his chest strangely aching.  Glancing up from a particularly enticing smelling fern he sees the “car” up ahead; the cart parked just outside the low stone wall that surrounds the front half of the cottage. The sensation in his chest slips down to become an uncomfortable twist in his low belly.

This is where his new stud(s) must be stabled.

He watches Master open the weathered, wooden gate hesitating only slightly when he’s called to follow after.

This is John’s first time to the cottage, though he’s seen pictures. In person, it looks no less idyllic. The gray, stone walls peppered with bursts of bright-green moss. The grounds, filled with carefully tended bits of garden, alternate florals and edibles that haven’t yet succumbed to fall.

Outside the main cobbled path, the new sod he requested has been laid over every inch that was previously graveled or bare ground.  This will keep the mud down and lower the wear on Sherlock’s hands and knees in the future when they’re out in the yard.

At the end of the walk the house sits, chipper in its white dress with sensible pale-blue trimmings. A wisp of smoke curls from the chimney in cheerful greeting.

While he was always happy at Baker Street, John would be lying if he denied that in his most secret, fleeting daydreams he hadn’t considered what it would be like to set up house with Sherlock in a setting like this. The fact this bit of his shamefully provincial fantasies is not only being realized, but actually subsidized by Mycroft Holmes would be hilarious, if it wasn’t for the circumstances.

Sherlock’s whimper breaks John from his reverie, reminding exactly why the situation, in reality, is really miles away from holding any humor at all.

“Come on, Love. It’s okay. This is where we’re to be now.”

Lovely tenses at the gate; eyes slightly wild as he scans the yard, scans Master. He slinks in, but stays pressed close to the garden wall. Jumping and whirling around when the gate “clicks” shut behind him.

Watching Master move forward, he longs to plunge after, but holds back. The stud has to be here somewhere…

In a moment there will be the pad of heavy paws, the wuffs of an intrusive snout, or snouts, invading, nosing at his nethers.  There’ll be nips and growls and then the weight and the…

Body still conditioned, despite recent shifts, Lovely’s ass clenches and he feels his cock start to fill, disregarding the fact he doesn’t want this...

Realizing Sherlock’s no longer with him, John turns. He watches silently for a few moments only to quickly realize his once fearless detective is obviously petrified. He steps towards Sherlock slowly.

“Hey, stay with me, Lovely…”

There are multiple layers to this gentle request and eventually, with coaxing, Sherlock’s dull gaze slowly sharpens again.

John reads the wordless plea in the endless sky eyes staring up at him, but he doesn’t know what Sherlock’s begging for exactly. The rage he feels at the men who did this to his beloved, rendered Sherlock this mute, trembling creature, constricts his chest tight enough to leave him airless.

It takes a moment for him to get hold of himself.

“Let’s take a quick tour of the garden, eh.” He finally extends a hand to ruff Sherlock’s hair, only to find himself concerned with how damp it is. “Then we’ll go in. I don’t want you getting too cold.”

He worries too about just how much more exertion, mental and physical, he can ask of Sherlock.

_Cold…_

It’s a word Lovely recognizes and sense of it surrounds, stealing the heat from his fear.  Suddenly he is conscious of the burn and numb of his paws, the cool on his hard cock, how his “useless” sac has retracted and aches with the chill.

The coat that felt so good against his skin earlier, hangs heavy with sweat. Wet has leaked through at his palms and knees. All these realizations and immediately Lovely is miserable.

The long, low whine Sherlock exhales reflects this precisely.

But this, this is something that John understands and he can’t help but smile.

“Okay. We’ll save the garden tour for another day shall we? Right. Let’s get you inside.”

He turns and makes another go at getting them down the path to the house. Lovely follows after, but stops every few feet, listening for the lolloping paws that never appear.

The cottage door opens as they draw close. Mycroft’s face appears in the threshold for a moment before disappearing back inside.  John smiles both in greeting and at the warm air within the cottage. Both men stand just beyond the entry, waiting, as Sherlock peeks in.

Again, there’s no skittering of claws on the polished floors at their arrival. While he knows that it’s preemptive, Lovely huffs out a breath of relief and gratefully crawls into the warmth.

Once in, John closes the door behind Sherlock and immediately sets to work. He’s pleased to note everything here in the hall is just as he asked for. Before Sherlock can move further in, he takes up and unrolls the padded mat he requested and urges Sherlock on to it.

Sodden coat suddenly absent, Lovely basks in the heat that kisses shivering skin. Though he's so tired he wants nothing more than to collapse on the mat, he obediently offers every requested limb for the unpeeling of damp padding.

Activating the hospital grade dispenser set up there, in second, John pulls a damp, hot cloth from it and begins to wipe Sherlock down. He can’t help but smile at hound-Sherlock’s pleasured moan as the dirt leaves and the heat fills his limbs.

“Excellent, Mycroft.” John glances at the low bureau which he knows will be full of towels, gloves, knee pads and coats. Everything Sherlock will need for coverage in his goings and comings. Then he cocks his head suddenly realizing something. He sets a palm on the polished wood.

“I had the planks taken up and floor heaters put in, the style one finds in certain areas of Asia. Since it appears Sherlock will be spending quite a bit of time on the floor. Thermostat’s on the wall next to the regular one.” Mycroft can’t help but sound a bit smug that he’s managed to think beyond John on at least this point of his brother’s comfort.

“That’s brilliant!” John’s eyes widen in genuine admiration, unaware this steals just a bit from the elder Holmes’ smirk.

A press into the dry towel he’s taken up, draws John’s attention back to Sherlock. As he rubs his human-hound dry, John notes the erection Sherlock sported out in the garden hasn’t dissipated and, in fact, in response to the toweling is now leaking down onto the mat.

It’s one of the reason’s he’d asked for hard flooring throughout the cottage. At least until Sherlock gets some things under a little better control. He imagines that the carpet in Sherlock’s old room is likely being torn out at this very moment.

“Ah, Mycroft, would you mind getting some tea together?” 

It’s not really a request: “tea” has become code for when John needs to attend to Sherlock in certain ways.

“Right.” Mycroft’s lips purse. He’s doing his best, and John’s methods really seem to be working with Sherlock, but the frequency with which his previously largely asexual brother now needs release still disturbs.

“Anthea and I will be in the kitchen. You two have a look around and join us when you’re ready.”

After Sherlock’s been “settled,” re-cleaned, and re-coated, John leads him out of the hall and into the main space of the cottage. Seeing what Mycroft’s done, he's astounded.

Despite its quaint exterior from the front, inside the cottage reveals it’s been expanded out the back and completely remodeled within. So, not only is it significantly larger than their Baker’s Street flat, but its interior is modern and so new it visibly sparkles. At the same time, it's not too slick to feel cozy.

John peeks into their new berth’s two bedrooms. In each, the beds are low to the floor as he asked, large enough for two to sleep easily, and covered with soft comforters. He hides a grin, as the open closet door in Sherlock’s room reveals twenty more coats in varying colors and thickness, neatly hanging.

The bathroom located between the bedrooms is a marvel with a sunken tub and a walk-in shower that’s large enough for both he and Sherlock if need be. The detachable rinsers for both will come in very handy. Sherlock's litter-pan is here too. But once again, a step ahead of him, John’s astonished and pleased to see that in addition to the toilet Mycroft added a bidet.

He’d told Mycroft earlier in the week he’d come across a way to train cats to use the loo, gradually shifting the location of their litter boxes. He’d thought to try this with Sherlock and the bidet will keep things much more hygienic.  Especially once Sherlock’s internal flora has recovered from his captors' over-purging and he no longer needs the occasional enema to save him straining, risking a recurrence of the prolapse he suffered during his rescue. 

But of all the wonders Mycroft has assembled, it’s the front room that really takes John’s breath away.

It's remarkably spacious. Large cushions, big enough for Sherlock to stretch out on, punctuate the room any place their human-hound might deign to plop down. Above the happily snapping fire in the hearth a flat screen telly’s mounted, currently muted, but showing the kind of afternoon pap that used to get Sherlock shouting. Below this, on the mantle, rests a familiar skull. It’s a nice contrast to the metal longhorn-skull mounted on the opposing wall.

But these aren’t the only Baker Street artifacts that decorate. A violin sits out on a low table, its case and a few sheets of music tucked underneath. One of the two desks in the room has a fantastic display of tiny beakers and a microscope just waiting. The titles on the rich wooden bookcases that line the far end are familiar, but most importantly, though they look even more tatty here, is Sherlock’s sofa and John’s chair from the flat.

Looking down at Sherlock, if John hoped this room would provide some immediate epiphany he’s surely disappointed: his human-hound hunkers at his feet, eyes heavy-lidded and not showing the least bit of interest.

John sighs. Reminding himself it’s still early days and at this point Sherlock is clearly exhausted. He makes his way across, over to the French doors flooding the room with afternoon gold, Sherlock stumbling at his heels.

Looking through the glassed doors he sees the estate’s woodlands just beyond the small patio.

“I’m afraid they haven’t finished fencing the back.” Hearing the cottage's new resident’s shuffling about, Mycroft’s emerged from the kitchen. “So, I recommend you two keep to the front for the interim. They should be finished by Monday.”

Blue eyes turn towards Mycroft. “This is amazing… I… I don’t even know what to say.”

Mycroft stares back. “Say that you’ll do your best.”

“I will. You know that.”

“And you should know that while I am committing my brother into your care, I’ll be watching.”

This should unsettle John but it doesn’t. Not really. Firstly because he’s too well aware of Mycroft’s penchant for surveillance to have ever believed it would be otherwise. The other reason, and it concerns him how much the notion he’ll be watched actually comforts, is that Sherlock is in such a vulnerable state it somehow seems vital… for both their safety.

One of the key things the military taught John was that even for those with the best of intentions absolute power can corrupt, sometimes unconsciously even.

Rather than say any of these however, he merely answers. “Of course.”

A noise off to the side draws both their attention and John and Mycroft immediately fall silent. While they have been talking, Sherlock’s crept away and is now over beside the sofa.

They watch their human-hound pace clumsily around its perimeter. Sherlock’s got his nose buried into the cushions, snuffing deeply, until a particular dusty bit sets him sneezing. Once he recovers, he peeks over at John with a face that’s just shy of sheepish.

Then Sherlock’s expression shifts. John smiles and nods, so pleased he’s about ready to burst.

“Go on then. It’s okay.”

With one more glance for assurance, Lovely uses the last bit of his energy to hoist himself up on the couch. Here, he promptly collapses with a heavy sigh, curling up into a corner.

This place has revealed no other dogs; the fleecy coat Master put on him is soft and so wonderfully warm. And this couch smells so familiar; his eyes sting from more than the dust in its cushions. The way it holds him, feels just so... 

_Safe._

He wants to revel in the peace of this all, but his eyes fall shut almost immediately. Within mere moments his breathing grows heavy.

Mycroft moves over to the couch. Looking down on his sleeping hound-brother he reaches his hand and feathers his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s cheek.  In his sleep, Sherlock sighs, it's a content little sound.

John feels himself blush with discomfort, having never seen Sherlock's brother so tender.

Mycroft lifts his pale gaze and their eyes meet. “I hope Sherlock can be happy here.”

John steps over and hesitantly sets a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder it’s as much comforting as he imagines the elder Holmes will allow. “He will be, Mycroft. For now, this place couldn’t be more perfect."

* * *

How long he’s been here trapped in this room Sherlock doesn’t know. He’d been residing above ground, in his palace, when the storm hit. It had been terrifying: windows torn open, black broken branches punching through walls in an instant.

The pound of the thunder deafened. He’d fled below, the storm chasing him, wind tearing his clothes to tatters as he raced down winding corridors into deeper and deeper darkness.

When the heavy steel door suddenly appeared before him, key waiting in the lock, he’d wasted no time in throwing it open. He heard the keen of the hound released with this motion; felt its fur brush his side as the huge beast ran out and he darted in, slamming door behind him and bolting it shut.

He’d huddled in the dark for ages hearing both storm and hound howling high over him.

Eventually he’d grown used to the sounds. He'd also learned he could pull some things from above, though not many, materializing these in to his solitary chamber. And while the culmination of these circumstances was far from pleasurable, he found he could at least endure it.

It was certainly preferable to emerging back out into the storm’s terror. That, and facing the frantic hound endlessly racing around overhead.

Now, Sherlock’s just finished going over his catalog of cigarette ash for the dozeneth time.

He’s not learned anything new, but he’s only been able to manifest just so many of his experiments here in his palace dungeon. And he’s read all the books on the shelves he’d been able to conjure, memorized and translated them to French and Italian. He’s been thinking about maybe Mandarin next.

He’s just finished this thought when suddenly he realizes something… He curses.

Being sequestered so long has made him dull, he should have noticed sooner. He sets his catalog aside and his ears strain, listening.

For the first time in, he doesn’t know how long, he hears nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

There’s no whipping wind, no rattling thunder. Even the bitch has fallen silent, there’s no pounding, or pacing, no howling.

Turning his gaze to the small hearth he constructed, he sees the tender blaze that lights and heats his dark capsule has steadied too. There’s no gusts from the flue pulling at it, trying to extinguish and leave him in blackness again.

Sherlock frowns at this new development. His frown deepens when he draws his conclusion, understands that he’s become so used to the sounds of violence raging above him, the silence terrifies him now.

Maybe even more than the storm ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for the kudos and bookmarks, even more for the comments. Hope you liked the new chapter. Sorry it ran overlong... Sherlock/Lovely just did not want to go into the cottage and it took a while to get him in.
> 
> Next chapter, now that the storm has stopped, let's see if John and Lovely can entice Sherlock out of his dungeon.


	7. Beckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter proved harder to write than I thought. It also could have been twice as long, but I decided to cut it into two parts and, with this, have given up on my notion of a specific number of chapters. This story will just go until it's done now. So there's that. 
> 
> Also, not that this should interest you in the least, but I have been in the midst of a big work project for weeks, one that has run far over into my private life. Unfortunately as fall approaches this will likely only get worse, so updates will undoubtedly continue to be sporadic.
> 
> Now that I have done my whining, for those of you still reading, I thank you for your patience.

John twists over in the bed with a heavy sigh. He wants to sleep more, but knows he’s already reached a level of consciousness where falling back isn’t likely. He sighs again and opens his eyes. There’s no controlling his body’s start.

“Fucking hell!… Sher… er, Lovely.”

Gray eyes stare at him unblinking, expectant, and not two inches from his own face. Almost three months and he’s still not used to waking up like this, although it happens often.

“I don’t know how it is I haven’t decked you yet!”

A month ago this growled reaction would have sent Lovely shrinking, but he remains unmoved now. Even in his canine deductions, he’s astute. He’s learned how quickly forgiveness comes and where things lay in terms on the scale of his transgressions. This morning annoyance he’s taken up, Master has come to read as almost playful. So, as expected, his ire fades quickly.

John creaks a sleep-heavy limb out to press a hand against Sherlock’s bare chest, pushing his human-hound back a bit. Sherlock scooches, accommodating, but John feels the excitement humming in the flesh beneath his palm.

“How long have you been awake then?”

Hearing that his world is truly rousing at last, Lovely can’t help but wiggle with pleasure. He dips a head down to dart a tongue at the gentle hand holding him, eyes peering carefully up from under dark lashes because Master doesn’t always appreciate being licked.

What he doesn’t know is that it’s actually quite the opposite that makes his keeper protest whenever tongue meets skin: John likes the licking far too much. Of course, the open look of love on Sherlock’s face doesn’t help matters either. It’s such a contrast to how steely his gaze used to be, knife-blade sharp, always piercing or defending.

_But this…_

There’s an unhappy twist in John’s gut at how much he’s come to enjoy the blatant adoration. It’s not that he disliked the way Sherlock looked at him before, just as intense, most often inscrutable; but waking up every day to someone who seems to think he’s hung the moon is undeniably pleasant.

It doesn’t help his guilt or his morning wood at all when a naked Sherlock rolls over onto his back, wriggling and arching his shoulders silently begging for a belly rub… or maybe something just a bit lower.

“Spoiled. I should have made you sleep in your own room, no matter how much you whined.”

But even as he huffs this, John’s fingers are already reaching. His beloved ward has filled out, but not too much. The pale skin pulled taut enough for the barely visible dip of ribs catching sternum is entirely too tempting. He ghosts fingertips over the smooth flesh there, loving the feeling while still visually missing the wisps of black hair that used to grow in a soft, feathered line between Sherlock’s pectorals.

The happy groan that vibrates Sherlock’s throat is enough to make John’s already hard cock grow wet. Knowing that this breaches into territory that’s more than a little “not good,” he bends his hand into a single extended finger and brushes the tip of one of Sherlock’s hard nipples. Then tracing around the dark disc, John watches it shrink even more.

Sherlock’s groan slips lower into a delighted growl and his chest arches up into the touch.The sight is captivating. 

“Christ…” Biting his lower lip cuts off John’s awed whisper.

He’d always wanted to touch Sherlock like this, dreamed about it. His gaze drifts down. Sherlock’s cock lies full and heavy on a lean thigh. Without its flaccid wrinkles it’s nearly as smooth as the rest of his depilated hide. Like the man it’s attached to, Sherlock’s cock is a beautiful thing, long and not over-thick, dark tip glistening. It takes all John’s willpower to pull his hand back and bugger if Sherlock doesn’t follow it. Rolling over onto his side, inching forward, expression painfully hopeful.

John closes his eyes at the press of large palms against his chest. The gentle flex of fingers just learning to work again catches his tee-shirt, ruffling his chest hair beneath the fabric. His jaw clenches, not before, however, a dark head dips down and nuzzles under the stubbled edge of it. The feel of warm breath puffing along his clavicle adds about a kilo to his balls and the ache in his dick shifts from annoying to profound.

While he wants to repel, the happy noises his detective makes has the opposite effect and his arm drifts around cool, bare skin to draw his love closer.

Fuck, Sherlock feels like heaven in his hands.

“Five minutes. That’s it,” he mutters through gritted teeth, determined to weather through it. Sherlock’s days always seem to go better when his morning starts off with a bit of snuggle before his first settling. John supposes it makes him feel more secure. And he would be lying if he said he didn’t find it grounding too.

_Usually._

But these last few weeks, as Sherlock has moved back into solid health, at least physically, all the closeness and the touch has become increasingly stirring and, as his caretaker, increasingly conflicting as well. John knows he’s slipping, despite his best intentions. Unconsciously he pulls Sherlock tighter in his efforts to hold on.

There are few things Lovely’s come to like more than watching Master wake each morning. When those wonderfully blue eyes open, it means his world gets to continue on as it has and it fills him with such happiness he can hardly contain himself. Not that adjusting to this life has necessarily been easy. He was quite lost at first and it took some time to suss out what it means to be a good pet for this man, but he thinks he’s getting the hang of it.

It’s really not so different than before. His life’s purpose remains making Master "happy." But what pleased his old owners and what pleases this one…

Well, the difference here stretches beyond significant.

Snuggling his head closer, Lovely rubs his cheek against the soft, worn cotton of Master’s shirt and lets the soothing sounds of the man’s voice wash over him. Although he knows most all the words now he pays little attention to the content, since there’s nothing in Master’s tones that hold any hint of direction at the moment. Instead, he lets his eyes drift shut basking in the warmth of his owner’s body.

“So, it’s a full day today. We’ll get up, shower, breakfast. You have PT from ten to noon. Your counselor will be here at two.

"Please at least acknowledge her today, Love.

“With the snow it’s too cold for a proper walk, but after she goes, since we did the arena yesterday, I thought I’d take you up to the house for a swim.

“Don’t want you getting bored now, do we?” The ramble stops and a gentle kiss is pressed into messy curls.

The mouth atop Lovely’s head stills, lingers there, and he understands Master’s gone thoughtful. His anxiety ratchets up a notch because lately thoughtful leads to…

_Heavy, sad, solemn?_

Lovely has so many words to choose from now, it overwhelms and he can’t help but whine in confusion. Thankfully, his noise gets Master talking again, so he lets these words fill his mind instead.

“Oh, and Mycroft called yesterday. He’s got someone coming to cut your hair at four. He’ll be here himself tonight at seven and is going to stay at the manor through the weekend again.”

John talks to Sherlock as though he would anyone else, regardless of his understanding.

“He warned me it will be a new person for your hair.” Sherlock’s last haircut was a bit of a disaster, he even snapped at the stylist. But a trim has been long overdue and he’s in a much calmer place now. “Think you can handle that?”

He’ll try and behave much better this time, although the thought of someone new makes Lovely's heartbeat accelerate. As long as Master is with him, however, he has come to almost trust that he’s truly safe. So he offers the barest of nods, having learned that this simple mode of communication makes Master ridiculously pleased.

And if being good means cuddles like this and praises after, he’d endure anything.

_Anything to keep this closeness._

Another kiss is pressed to the top of his head and Lovely can feel Master smile against him. He leans back into the fingers unconsciously and gently running through his hair just at his nape, loving the tingle it sends down his spine. Master is so unbelievably good to him. Over the last few days, he’s become determined to find some way to make this man understand how much he loves him, loves belonging to him.

Breathing in his owner’s scent, he detects an undercurrent of arousal mixed in with all the other smells that he’s come to know as _refuge, comfort, heart…_

_Master._

He shifts his hips closer, pressing his hard cock against the warm, fuzzy flesh of Master’s thigh at the same time he lifts his head and applies a couple suckling nips to the strong neck he’s been sheltered beneath.

“Fuck, Love…”

Lovely’s cock twitches as does his ass and a wonderful warmth fills his chest at the heat and the gasp held in Master’s voice. His eyes drift downwards. He knows what lies below the rumpled sheet, how Master’s dick is tenting his boxers. He’s seen it many mornings since he was invited into the man’s bed. Having been used by more than just dogs under his old master’s rule, he feared it initially. Now there’s nothing he wants more than to attend it.

The suddenness of Sherlock’s movement surprise John, but nowhere nearly as much as the actions themselves. In an instant Sherlock’s pushed the sheet off; newly-discovered fingers catch the band of his shorts, pulling them awkwardly down. The elastic snags on his dick before it slips free.

He’s so stunned he’s immobilized until Sherlock’s head drops and he slithers down in the bed. But the second his pubic hair is nuzzled and there’s a slick of tongue at the base of his dick, John explodes into action.

“Sherlock! No!

Scrabbling out of the bed so fast, he loses his balance; the wood floor collides hard against his half-bared ass. He pops up in an instant, hiking up his shorts simultaneously. So high the elastic snaps above his belly button.

“No, no, no!”

The word falls from his lips in an unconscious chant, his whole body flushed with fury at himself for what’s just happened. The burn of regret, however, sears even hotter when he sees the gutted expression, Sherlock curled and cowering on the bed. All too clearly he knows just how those gray eyes would look right now if they would meet his gaze.

“Damn.

Lovely...”

He wants to fall to his knees on the bed, to comfort and console and pet, but he’s too disgusted with himself. What Sherlock must think if he was driven to act like that… Even worse is John knows he provoked it, wanted it. Hell, he wants it still, if he's honest.

The thought of touching Sherlock feeling like this, when he’s still Lovely, of confusing his human hound even more than he already has, makes his whole chest ache.

Running fingers through his hair, John sighs. He realizes he could use a trim himself, but this is the least of his worries at the moment. 

“Right then…”

He turns and leaves the bedroom and Sherlock without saying anything else. He’ll do whatever he needs to later to make it up, but right now he just can’t deal with this.

Lovely lays frozen on the bed even after Master leaves. It takes several long minutes for his heartbeat to steady and even when it finally does he still finds it hard to draw a full breath. He’s broken at the knowledge that he’s made Master upset. In all the time they’ve spent together the man has never once reacted so strongly.

 _Stupid… Stupid bitch…_ The words keep repeating in his mind.

He waits for Master to return, growing ever more anxious when he doesn’t. It’s only when Lovely hears the water begin to run in the shower that he lifts his head. It takes several minutes for him to gain the courage to finally move.

Slipping off the bed he slinks in the direction of the bathroom. The door is just slightly open. He butts it softly with his head and crawls in. The humid air tickles his bare skin making him shiver. Master’s shorts and his shirt lie crumpled on the tile just outside the shower, his compact frame blurred but visible behind the frosted glass.

The sight makes Lovely even more disconcerted because ever since they’ve lived in this place, Master has never bathed without him. He tips his head to the side as he continues to watch and the realization strikes that Master is actually “settling” himself in the shower. His head drops at the implication of this and the rejection. He skulks over to the tiny pile of clothes and curls up on them. Tears fill his eyes at his failure.

Within the shower, John has one palm braced against the wall while his other hand furiously strokes his cock. He'd tried a cold rinse first, only to realize he was going to freeze to death today before he even came close to wilting. He needs to come badly and quick, so that he can get back to Sherlock and try and fix the horrible mess he’s made.

His mind reels through its rolodex of imagery, stuff guaranteed to get him off.

It’s an odd collection: things like Sherlock running across a London street with his greatcoat flapping behind him; the way the man’s fingers look playing the violin; the light in his eyes when he’s solved something; the softer glow when he’s praised; how his throat looks framed by that too-tight, purple shirt of his.

The arrangement of any of these interspersed with a sprinkling of women’s tits is usually enough to send him racing towards completion. Today, however, it’s Sherlock throat banded by his slim, black leather collar John sees; Sherlock licking the remains of a treat from his fingers. The way his head looks on his thigh as they sit together on the couch in the evenings; the feel of Sherlock’s beautiful dick in his hand.

Gritting his teeth, John tries to growl these away knowing that his climax is eminent. Then there’s a soft whine of longing from just outside the shower. It’s this that finally pulls his cum from him in one long, sobbed shudder. Pressing his forehead against the tiles, he tries to regain his breath. The low, mourning sounds outside the shower stall continue and John understands finally and fully just how deeply he’s lost.

The origin of Lovely’s first whine is epiphany. Casting frantically about for where he went wrong and how to right things stirs up far more than he expects. His mind, now months-free from drugs, psychological abuse, and torture is so much quicker these days and memories from the day he was born and after come back to him.

_You’re not human, puppy, are you – just look how well you’ve done, you learnt to obey so fast, you barely fought… we knew you would love it… You’re a dog, Libu, you’re not a human…*_

_This is who you were always meant to be – a little doggy, made to be someone’s pet, to be bred and bred and bred, time and again, until your hole is aching and leaking like a dirty little slut…*_

Suddenly everything comes together, and Lovely understands- the clothes Master puts on him, the flatware set out at each meal by his plate, the people who come every other day trying to coax his wobbling lower legs into walking.

And the name: the one that Master slips and says sometimes, like he did this morning. The one that sounds nothing like Lovely, or Libu, or Sweetheart…

_Sherlock._

Lovely’s whimpers grow louder realizing now that despite all Master’s kindness, what he really wants is a human…

 _Not a dog or a pet._ Not a filthy, slutty puppy like he is; a dirty animal whose life was made be spent impaled on a knot.

And it’s not just any human Master wants, but a specific one. This “Sherlock” person.

That Master doesn’t want him, that he’ll never be enough as he is, crushes and he cringes away when the shower door clicks open at last and the one he worships stands before him shrouded in steam-clouds like some mythic diety.

“Hey, Love, what are you doing there? You’re going to catch your death. Come on now.”

The response is automatic, because if Lovely knows one thing, it’s how to obey. He crawls, trembling, into the shower, glancing up just once for the merest of moment as he moves past Master. It’s enough though, he’s never seen Master look so unhappy.

He stands perfectly still throughout his wash. Master’s every touch hurts him, though the man has never bathed him more gently than he’s doing now. Master talks to him sweetly the whole time too, but he barely registers the words or the tone: they’re not really meant for him anyways.

At last, though this has been a part of their routine for months, he quivers and shies when Master reaches under him to see if he needs to be milked. Fortunately he’s limp for once and his owner doesn’t seem inclined to rouse him.

He’s glad for this, now that he realizes just what a dirty creature he is. It makes sense why he’s no longer bred, or fucked, or forced to suck. Why the man frowns when he's licked. It’s only because Master is so kind that he’s probably able to touch him at all. Lovely on the other hand, knows he's a bitch, miserable and needy. Having to care for such a base creature as he, must only make him seem all that more disgusting.

He shrinks in on himself even more when Master swings himself to the shower floor, sitting next to him. The man shouldn’t do this, not just because it obviously pains his leg, but because he’s already lowered himself too much as it is. This knowledge is only made worse by the fact that even with knowing this, Lovely still desperately wants Master to touch him.

John feels tears come to his eyes as he studies Sherlock. This is no simple regression: his corruption in care has brought about some kind of significant shift in his human-hound and not for the better. He drops his head and brings fingers to his brow to rub at the ache that’s suddenly lodged there.

“Sorry. I am so bloody sorry, Lovely… Sherlock… Fuck. I thought I could do this and I’ve just literally cocked everything up now. God, I’m stupid.”

The sound of Master’s distress makes Lovely’s heart catch. He can’t for the life of him understand what the man’s apologizing for. Master has been perfect. He’s the one who’s failed. Surely the man has to know this.

Regardless, seeing his beloved keeper like this is simply…

_Unacceptable._

Slipping across wet tiles Lovely pulls alongside Master and gently butts his head against a heaving side. Gray eyes widen when the bowed, water-dark head lifts and he can see that Master is actually crying. It pulls a sad whine from his throat and before he thinks about what he’s doing, Lovely lifts a hand and brushes clumsy fingers across his keeper’s damp cheek.

Now it’s blue eyes that grow large, John’s body stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Instead he reaches out and takes the hand from his cheek and presses a kiss to the top of it.

Lovely is astounded by the action, those sweet lips against his filthy paw. This man never ceases to surprise.

“What happened this morning, Love… That was my fault, not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were good, are good. You’re just perfect, okay.”

Master opens his arms and even though Lovely doesn’t believe him, he crawls into the space. Long legs curl up tight to fit between shorter splayed ones. He leans heavily against Master’s chest and lets strong arms wrap around him. He understands Master needs this, and he needs whatever will make Master happy.

“I love you … love Sherlock too… Christ, I just miss him so much sometimes.” John’s voice is rough and he knows he should shut up, but he can’t bring himself to stop.  

With his long body, it’s a tight fit, but Lovely makes it work. Head partially tucked once more at Master’s jaw, he listens to the soft murmur above him, and though it grieves him, he knows what it is he has to do now.

The shower covers both their tears until the hot water runs out.

* * *

Dressed in a thick, gray, human sweater and a pair of boxers, Lovely sits on a cushion near the French doors. Dusk is falling fast and, as Master promised, it has been a full day with barely any time to think.

After the cold water drove them from beneath their vaporous canopy in the shower and back out into the hard-edged world, things evened out, though they never quite relaxed fully. He's stayed on his best behavior all day, even looked at his counselor once during the hour while she sat in Master’s chair, watching him sit on the couch. And he handled his trimming much better than Master did his own.

Beneath the soft music that fills the cottage, a noise to the side pulls him from his reverie and he glances over to where Master is working at his desk now, face serious as he taps away on his laptop. Lovely still doesn’t understand what it was that got Master so upset with the groomer. Though he knows Master was tense well before. Hopefully, however, he has figured out a way to fix this and now with this quiet time he can begin.

He stares out the glass into the snow-draped wilds beyond the edge of the now-fenced yard, then turns his gaze inwards. It takes a bit of effort to do this. It’s been a long time since he’s made this particular journey and he only hopes he’ll find what he’s after once he gets there.

* * *

Inside his palace dungeon Sherlock is going crazy. The storm has long since stopped, and once he became re-accustomed to the quiet, he reveled in it. Unfortunately, this peace ended some time ago. At first it was just the click of nails on the stone in the hallway outside now and again, then the occasional timid scratch on the door. But recently the bitch has been camped outside and she’s been whining non-stop now for hours.

He really can’t take anymore.

“Will you just shut the bloody hell up!”

When his yell brings a reprieve of the grating cries that lasts for less than a minute, Sherlock flies up from his seat at his desk. Storming across the room he flings the door open, body tight and ready for the onslaught.

“Enough now! You’re driving me mad!”

The sight that meets him, however, is far from what he expected. The dog is huge, larger than he remembered. Calmer too: the last time he saw her she was a frantic, shivering mess. But now, at his violent greeting, the gray-eyed Irish Wolfhound just sits there quietly, offering him the merest tap of tail in response.

This catches him short, but even more than the hound’s stillness, it’s the dog’s attire that stuns.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

The animal looks ridiculous in the gray, cable-knit jumper, its still smally-tapping tail sticking out of the leg of the boxers that cover its bottom.

“Is this some new kind of torture they’ve dreamed up?” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. He cringes at himself because he knows all too well what true torture looks like and what he left her to face.

The dog cocks it head to the side studying him. Now that he’s got a better grasp of himself, Sherlock does the same. He quickly realizes things must have changed considerably since he last ventured out. The hound looks well-groomed, well-fed, healthy. Her eyes have new sharpness to them.

His voice has lost considerable surety when he next speaks. “You’ve switched hands then?”

The bitch’s mouth opens and she offers a lightly panted smile in response before she rises and takes a careful step closer. Sherlock snorts at this, annoyed the dog is treating him like he’s the frightened animal here. Still, the hand he reaches out to trace her collar can’t hide its visible tremble. The tags rattle just a bit as Sherlock grasps them and turns them over. There’s a new name too.

_Lovely?_

“What kind of idiot would choose a name like that?” Sherlock drops the tags quickly when his words draw a deep growl from the hound. He takes a step back. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s certainly an improvement.”

His comment seems to placate and the growling stops. Tension fills him when the bitch moves again, but this time she takes a few steps to the side into the hallway that connects with the stairs. It takes Sherlock only two seconds to understand when she stills, that the hound wants him to follow.

“And if I don’t?”

His ears burn at the renewal of the whine that’s plagued him for the last several hours.

“Oh God, no! I'll come, just stop that insufferable racket!”

He ignores the shake in his legs as he follows after.

They’re almost to the top of the stairs when Sherlock hears it. Low at first and then louder. It makes his heart pound in an entirely different way than it has for ages.

 _It’s music. Real music_ … Not memories generated from his internal i-pod. 

He almost stumbles over the last step, he’s listening so hard. It’s the first concerto of “Butterfly Lovers” and Sherlock’s sure  it’s Lu Si-Qing who's playing the solo. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift in the music for a moment. He hasn’t heard this piece for years and it makes his fingers itch for his bow.

While the music is heavenly, when he opens his eyes, the scene that greets him looks far more like hell: his mind palace lays in shambles around him. There’s broken glass everywhere. A pile on snow lies on the polished wood, let in by a hole in the ceiling. Every book has been pulled and tossed from the shelves, every stick of furniture upended.

The sight overwhelms and brings with it his last memory of the storm. His gut is suddenly gripped by a terrible ache. Blessedly, the black branches that perforated his sanctuary are absent. Even with this saving grace, however, surveying all the damage in just this one room...

_It will take months and months to put everything back into place._

Sherlock is struck with the urge to retreat back down the stairs. In fact, his feet begin to move that direction, but the canine teeth set lightly in the cuff of his sleeve stop him. There’s a look in the gray gaze that holds his own and while Sherlock can’t quite interpret it, it keeps him from jerking his arm away.

Instead, he finds himself gently pulled further into the room and over to one of the broken windows. Dark brows crease as he looks out. The winter scene before him is nothing like the landscape he last inhabited. What’s more, the vista looks somehow…

_Familiar._

“I know this place.”

His whisper is met with a soft whine of encouragement.

“How do I know this place?” Despite the snow on the floor, Sherlock is aware he doesn’t really feel cold. It takes him a few minutes to realize he’s looking at a scene through a second window, that the view being taken in is likely by his own eyes, from his transport.

His heart stumbles with the realization that he’s no longer in Texas; the hope that maybe, just maybe…

It’s too much to consider and Sherlock goes down on his knees. It’s only then he realizes that the bitch beside him is wearing nothing but her fur now and he’s suddenly dressed in jumper and boxers. He can’t help the tremor that seizes his lean frame.

Despite how severely he’s shaking, he crawls over to another window, ignoring the broken shards that leave his knees bloody. Peering through the cracked panes he sees the inside of a house. It looks new, but many of the furnishings are worn and familiar and the whole feel of it is so bloody, blessedly English it makes him tremble harder.

He hasn’t had the chance to really examine things when his eyes fall on the figure seated at the desk. A sob catches in his throat when he realizes that this man looks nothing like any of his captors, although he does look achingly known.

Sherlock’s not sure if it’s that he can't place this man or the fact that he’s filled with the desperate sense that he should, that makes his eyes fill with tears. Looking through the spider-webbed glass what he is able to ascertain is that the fellow at the desk is a soldier and a doctor. And, the visual information tells him, is looking after him, or more correctly, Lovely, devotedly.

Another pained sound swells in his throat. Sherlock unconsciously raises a hand as though this will stop it from spilling out. When he does, his fingers catch the edge of a soft, leather band. The sense of this suddenly chokes him and both hands fly up in a panic only to locate the buckle a second later.

Sherlock pulls the collar from his throat as quickly as possible. Turning it over in his hands he notes that it's not his old one and, just as when it was on the hound's neck, it bears more than one tag. Why he didn’t read them both down below, he can’t fathom, but now he does. The first is the same as before, simple silver inscribed with the name “Lovely.”

The second holds his own.

_Sherlock._

After all the words that he’s tapped out, John thinks all he really needed to write was “one totally fucked up day.”

He looks up from all his logging and his eyes automatically shift over to where Sherlock/Lovely has been quietly sitting for ages. His brow furrows seeing how badly his human-hound is trembling: it’s well beyond the shake of chill. In fact, his detective looks to be just shy of seizing.

“Lovely?”

He starts to rise, but the expression on Sherlock’s face freezes him, because John knows in an instant, that it is truly Sherlock’s face he's is seeing. Not Lovely, but Sherlock… his Sherlock.

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock!”

The sound of his name echoing throughout the hollows of his palace pulls Sherlock's eyes back to the window with a start. He realizes that while occupied, his transport has continued staring at the man at the desk. What’s more the man has recognized him.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

_It’s too much… too much._

He's not ready yet. And in an instant he’s pulling himself across the floor, throwing himself back down the staircase. Bulleting back to his safe space in the dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: John and Mycroft have a heart to heart and the Holmes brothers get to spend some quality time together.
> 
> And if you were at all curious, the music I chose, "Butterfly Lovers" violin concerto is a modern Chinese composition. It is the musical interpretation of an ancient story of two lovers who, after suffering through a tragic separation, at the end are turned into butterflies that will fly together eternally. It seemed to fit the story's purposes. 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_Lovers%27_Violin_Concerto  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DK3jRo6aTbQ
> 
> One last bit... Please note that any text followed by an asterisk is quoted from fireofangels original fic, "Bitch."
> 
> Always, always, always, thank you for reading!


	8. Brother

It’s been two weeks since he’s been able to visit his brother.  **  
**

Not for the first time since Sherlock was lost, Mycroft wishes the world kind enough to simply stop for a few moments. It was bothersome before, but now, far more so. Constantly having to preference the security of the nation or the toppling of regimes over the matters of his blood is remarkably wearing. **  
**

Hand hovering  above the front door of the cottage, he frowns. It annoys him to have to knock, especially since the house is Holmes’ property. But Mycroft knows too, given Sherlock’s condition, just “popping in” as he used to is still unadvisable.

However, that’s not the only reason to tread softly today: Mycroft has no doubt John is unhappy with him at present. When the door opens after his crisp but quiet raps, he sees his assessment is not off.

“Mycroft.”

His name is gritted out and Mycroft can tell by the tic in John’s jaw, the man is working hard to be civil.

“John.”

While Mycroft’s voice shines with its regular polish, there’s a hint of strain here as well. After all, he’s not the only one guilty of transgression today.

The door opens wider and the cottage’s warmth wafts out into the frigid evening. John steps back to allow him entry.

The scent of stew perfumes the air and Mycroft hears the fire crackling in the front room hearth. Finely-booted feet quietly stamp to shake the snow. Gloves and scarf come off next, the expensive long-coat hung neatly on a peg in the hall entry.

Observing this small ritual, John’s eyes are irritated and wary.

“I was just making tea when you knocked.”

Ginger brows lift in question. John snorts but there’s no mirth in it.

“Real tea. He’s sleeping.”

Following as he’s led further in, Mycroft’s gaze soon falls on Sherlock’s long form curled up in a corner of the couch beneath a blanket.

John watches the way Mycroft looks at his brother, but remains silent until they’re in the kitchen. He steps to the stove to stir a simmering pot and turns down its burner.

“He’s exhausted. Hard afternoon.”

Another burner is shut off. John pulls the spitting kettle from it without looking back.

Mycroft draws out a chair and sits down at the small table. “From the report I received; he had a hard morning as well.”

Back to him, John freezes where he stands at the stove. His shoulders hunch.

Settling into his chair, Mycroft takes in John’s every motion. The man is coiled tight as a spring, his muscles practically hum with tension. But John says nothing until after their tea is steeped and poured, biscuits set out. He pulls out the chair opposite and sits down, places his hands palms-down on the table.

“We had a bit of a hiccup this morning, yeah. But I handled it.”

“ _We_ had a hiccup?” Mycroft asks before his lips purse at the steaming rim of his mug. Yet another sign of how irritated John is. Otherwise he would have presented him with a proper teacup.  

Ignoring the obvious slight, Mycroft takes a small sip. The heaviness of the beaker is unwieldy so he sets it down again on the table.

“Lovely is an innocent, in your care. So, I would say, _you_ , John were the one who faltered.”

Color rises to John’s cheeks; there’s that flicker in the muscle of his jaw again. His eyes are hard on Mycroft before he finally drops his head, staring into his cup.

“Yeah, well… As I said, _I handled it_.

“Not that you should be pointing fingers when it comes to managing things” The blond head lifts again and John’s usually cool, blue eyes burn hot. “Seriously, Mycroft... What the hell were you thinking?!”

Seeing the anger there, Mycroft tsks, “Come now, John, it was a reasonable thing to do. I was only trying to alleviate the situation for both of you. Honestly, I would have thought you’d have been grateful.”

“Grateful?”

Atop the table, John’s open palms have fisted themselves. They give a soft thump that rattles the service as he stands. He moves to the cupboards and takes down a bowl to make tea for Sherlock as well. Mycroft notes the tremble in the doctor’s left hand.

“You disguised a whore as a barber. She propositioned me in front of him! Tell me what in that I should be thanking you for?”

“Really, John,” Mycroft sniffs at the outburst. “You make it sound so crass. She is an _escort_ with experience as a _stylist_. Did a fine job with your hair, by the way.”

“That’s not funny, Mycroft.”

“No, John… It’s not. But it did seem necessary. You have been sequestered here too long with my brother without release. Given your feelings, I am surprised you didn’t slip sooner, but I won’t have Sher... him taken advantage of.

“You needed an outlet and so I gave you one.”

“I can get my own ‘outlet’!”

“Really? You haven’t left the grounds in weeks.” Mycroft lifts his mug again watching John over the rim.

Ignoring the truth of this statement, John repeats, “She bloody propositioned me, Mycroft. And not subtly.”

“I know your history, John. Surely that wasn’t the first time a woman’s approached you…”

Mycroft’s eyes widen just slightly as a thought occurs to him. “Oh… Should I have sent a man?...”

“What? No. Christ!…” Slipping from its earlier low growl, John’s voice grows increasingly louder. “How dense can you be? Even if I had been keen, which I’m not. She should have never said anything in front of Lovely.

“Fortunately, I don’t think he heard. That would have devastated him. It was bad enough he saw me angry with her.”  

It’s clear from his expression Mycroft thinks John’s being overly dramatic. “Oh, come now. I can hardly imagine he’d have understood what she said.”

John shakes his head at this, bringing fingers up to rub his aching brow. “You’re wrong. Lovely’s different, but no less intelligent than Sherlock ever was. He picks up new things every day.

“You’d be amazed at what he understands now, Mycroft. And…” a heavy sigh escapes John, “What he feels.”

“His therapist doesn’t think so…” Mycroft stares into the bottom of his beaker.

“You and I both know his therapist is an idiot. And you, of all people, should know better than to underestimate him.”

As if summoned to give weight to John’s words, there’s the sound of soft shuffling from the hall and a moment later Lovely cautiously pokes his dark head around the edge of the door frame.

Awakened by the buzz of tension and harsh, low voices, despite his trepidation he’s come to investigate. 

Normally, nowadays, the chubby one… _Mycroft’s_ … appearance is reason for excitement because it means sweets and cuddles. But scanning the room Lovely knows immediately that he’s the topic of the two men’s conversation. His recently capsized heart sinks deeper, sensing somehow he’s caused trouble again.

“Hey there sleepyhead!”

Over-cheerful, John grins, but his fake smile falls when Lovely ducks his head and looks sadly away.

After rousing from his earlier fit, Lovely tore at his clothes and refused to be soothed until he was naked again. John’s pale pup enters the room, long body completely bare at the moment.

Skirting Master, he winds his way over to Mycroft.

Mycroft observes his brother’s every movement. His frown deepens when Lovely sits down beside his chair and leans his newly-trimmed, but no less disheveled head lightly against his thigh.

Their human hound’s solemnity is unnerving and Mycroft realizes over the past months, once he and this different incarnation of his brother arrived at better terms,  just how much he’s come to enjoy Lovely’s enthusiastic greetings.

He slips a hand carefully under Lovely’s jaw. Too aware of the flinch, he lifts the angular chin up. Lovely holds his gaze for the barest of moments before looking off to the side, though the curly head doesn’t move at all.

Hoping to restore a little liveliness, Mycroft dips a hand into the breast pocket of his jacket to pull out a sweet. At the crinkle of foil, pale eyes return to him. They contain their usual eager hope, but the lean body at his feet remains remarkably still, the expected paroxysms of wiggles absent.

“Don’t you want a treat, sweet boy?”

It’s been quite the thing watching the older Holmes soften over the weeks: hearing once careful endearments uttered until they no longer sound stiff. At the counter John’s stills from stirring Sherlock’s tea. There’s no missing the concern in Mycroft’s voice, or the cautious way Lovely takes his treat.

Where before there would have been joyous snuffles, and licks that left wet fingers, today Lovely’s lips are pulled back and there’s no tongue, only teeth, as though he’s afraid dirtying Mycroft’s hand.

As much as he has complained about Sherlock’s slobber, this new approach disconcerts Mycroft even more. When Lovely leans against his leg again, reservedly chewing his sweet, long fingers dip down immediately to stroke through dark bangs.

The lean body pressing against tailored pantlegs tremors.

“What’s wrong.. hmmm, pup of mine?” Mycroft’s brow dips when he’s answered by Lovely’s increasing tremble and a soft whine.

Before he can probe further, John interrupts.

“Hey, Love, your tea’s ready come get it, Sweetheart.”

He takes the bowl of warm, sugared tea over to Sherlock’s spot, a soft, thick throw rug set near the stove, and sets the bowl on the raised tray, installed so Sherlock doesn’t have so far to bend down.

Lovely slinks obediently over, begins to lap his tea quietly, keeping his eyes on the floor. John squats down and places a gentle hand on his head, ruffling soft fingers through softer curls.

“Don’t want to try holding your bowl again, Lovely? You did so good this morning.”

If Master had commanded him to pick his bowl up, he would have, but the man’s tone clearly arranges his words as question. So rather than perform that particular trick, he stills, staying perfectly in place; his heart slowly shattering. He understands fully now how Master had been training him to be human. But he knows he’s a bitch. Human is something that he’ll never be.

That’s why he brought Sherlock back.

After a few silent moments with no other response, John’s hand slips away and he stands. He keeps his eyes fixed on his ward, not acknowledging Mycroft’s presence at all. Ever since Sherlock flickered in and out and Lovely returned, there’s no denying his human hound’s regression and John is at a loss for how to handle it.

“You’re shivering. I’m going to go get a wrap for you. And no fussing this time. I don’t want you taking cold.”

Only once John is gone does Lovely begin lapping again. At least, until Mycroft’s stare weighs on him heavier than his master’s hand did. When gray meets blue, the mug in Mycroft’s fingers slips. Tea decorates saucered biscuits, tabletop, and the thighs of his trousers.

 _John’s right._ There’s new consciousness in that remarkable gray gaze..

In the months since his rescue, Mycroft has seen many raw emotions dance over his brother’s previously impassive features, but these were the open, innocent expressions of the creature consciousness operating Sherlock’s transport. What he sees today in Lovely’s eyes, however, is not an animal’s expression.

The shame there is heartbreaking.

Mycroft wonders, if there was such a thing as God and old myths held true, if what he’s feeling might not well align with how the Creator felt, stepping into Eden to find he’d lost his children.

Sadly, this is the second time he has witnessed such an expression on his brother’s face. Not having Sherlock’s agility with deletion, he remembers the first with criminal clarity: Sherlock was five, he twelve and full of adolescent arrogance. Mycroft’s blood pulses with conviction, knowing in that last instant, he’d not only authored his brother’s  first true experience of shame; but had, at the time, in fact, actually revelled in it.

Sadly, looking back now, he knows this was the origin of the wedge in what would eventually open the canyon between them.

Unable to hold his gaze for long, Lovely drops his head. A new shiver trembles the human-hound’s lanky frame.

Seeing Lovely’s bare body tremor, Mycroft realizes it’s not a jacket their poor pup is needing. He also realizes he’s no longer twelve. And although Sherlock is, _well... no longer quite Sherlock either_ , this doesn’t diminish his desire to do better this time.

* * *

When John returns with one of Lovely’s wraps, he’s stunned by the sight that greets him: Mycroft Holmes sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the stove, no jacket, tie off; with his bare brother all but curled up in his lap.

A long arm reaches for Lovely’s jacket.

“You’re going out, John. Anthea’s waiting with the car for you outside. She’ll take you into town to the pub there. I’m spending the evening here with with my brother tonight.”

The stony set of Mycroft’s face says he’ll broker no argument; nonetheless, John is about to protest anyways. Anger floods his chest; then his eyes fall on Lovely, the way he’s nuzzled into Mycroft, practically clinging

He swallows his words before they surface. It’s clear that right now, Mycroft can offer their human hound comfort in way that he can’t.

“Lovely…”

The dark head reluctantly lifts.

“Go to the other room, Sweetheart.”

The words are said very gently, but there’s no denying the order in them. Lovely’s never intentionally disobeyed Master, but he hesitates.

“Go, on… Mycroft will come out and join you in a minute. I promise he’ll pick right back up loving on you.

“Won’t you, Mycroft.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft huffs, obviously irked by John’s choice of words. But even as he says this he run his fingers through tousled hair, clearing the landscape of Sherlock’s brow enough to press a soft kiss to it.

It takes a moment for Lovely to untangle his limbs but as soon as he does, he shuffles off; the absent tail tucked between his legs far too easy to visualize. Mycroft stands and straightens himself, he brushes the creases from his slacks.

“I’m glad you’re not going to fight me on this, John.

“Go to the pub, drink, get yourself sorted out. Anthea can secure you a room in town if you need.”

John shakes his head. “No… I haven’t missed a night with him yet.”

Mycroft’s expression teeters on uncomfortable. “Yes… About that. Tomorrow I think that you and I should discuss the benefit of making other arrangements for Lovely.”

“What are you talking about, Mycroft?” All the color leaves John’s face when he realizes what Mycroft is saying. “No… No…”

“Your ‘hiccup’ today, as you put it, obviously has profoundly affected my brother and not for the better.”

John’s head has taken on a perpetual shake. “No, Mycroft. You’re wrong. Look, I know I messed up this morning. But whatever happened, it did something.”

“Obviously, John. That’s what I have just been saying.”

“No... “ the word has become a mantra John refuses to abandon. “Lovely’s had a setback, I know.

"You know too, the therapist said that was inevitable, expected. But then I think  that’s also because...”

Mycroft cuts John off, “Are you referring to the same mental health professional that not even fifteen minutes past you were calling an _idiot_?”

“Hush and listen to what I am saying, Mycroft!” John’s voice rise above its previous heated whisper.

Though he frowns at being “shushed,” Mycroft stills. He tips his head slightly though his expression indicates he’s not going to be particularly receptive.

“Look… I saw him today.”

John runs one hand through his newly-shorn hair when he sees Mycroft doesn’t follow.

“It was Sherlock.”

The name catches on his throat at first, but once dislodged John’s words tumble out of him in a torrent.

“I swear, Mycroft. He was here. I know it. One minute Lovely was sitting across the room and I’m working at my desk. The next minute I look up and he, Sherlock, is there, staring back at me. Looking at me like he’d seen a ghost.”

Seeing the blue eyes across from him narrow, John rushes on, a nervous chuckle twined into his next sentence. “I imagine, I must have looked the same.”  

John’s expression becomes beseeching. “I’ll say again, I know what happened this morning was not good. But on my word, Mycroft… I think that… It did something… Somehow pulled him back.”

While Mycroft can see that John’s earnest, or at least believes what he’s saying, he also knows the man is desperate to be allowed to stay with his brother.

 _But, if there’s any truth in it_ … He damns himself for not going over the afternoon’s report before he arrived.

 _If only the Chinese would behave themselves…_ Mycroft sighs.

“You say you saw him.”

John nods eagerly. “Yes.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“The way he held himself, the expression on his face,” John huffs out a sigh. “It clearly wasn’t Lovely and I know Sherlock bloody Holmes when I see him.”

Mycroft considers this thoughtfully. Since Sherlock’s been returned there’s been much talk about dissociation. It’s why he’s humored this “Lovely” situation. Given what his brother was forced to endure, the shattering of self in preservation struck him as logical.

There’s that dangerous flicker of hope in his chest again at the possibility that Lovely isn’t all that’s left of his brother, that somewhere inside, Sherlock may truly be there still, intact, or at at least, relatively.

“How did he seem?”

John meets his eye, his tone that of a soldier reporting. “Scared.”

Mycroft hums at this.

“He wasn’t here for long. Just a few minutes. Then it seemed like he got panicked. Only natural, popping in someplace all of a sudden, likely not knowing where he was, what was happening or going to.

“When he left, his transport had some kind of fit and when things came back online, Lovely was back. I don’t know if they know about each other. From what I’ve read, in a situation like this, it varies. But Lovely knows something’s occurred; he’s been acting like it’s early days again ever since.”

John goes to put Sherlock’s teabowl away and clear the table but Mycroft waves him off. “You go. I’ll take care of this.”

There’s that panicked look on John’s face again and Mycroft lifts a hand in truce.

“I want to examine this situation on my own, determine, if what you say is true, what’s best for… er… both of them.

“Call me in three hours and if you’re not too inebriated, I’ll have Anthea bring you back and we’ll talk further.”

The amount of gratitude that washes over John’s features makes Mycroft uncomfortable. _It’s not proper for a man to love so hard._

“I’m not promising anything, John.” Before John can respond, he adds, “Hurry up, she’s waiting.”

This is more consideration than John had hoped for earlier. And even with what’s happened he still can’t imagine there’d be any place better for Lovely/Sherlock than with him. He just needs to give Mycroft the space to come to that conclusion on his own.

So, rather than push any more, instead he nods to the pot on the stove.

“He’s not had supper yet. I thought he needed the rest more than food earlier, so you’ll want to feed him. He doesn’t like his stew hot, but he doesn’t like it too cold either. He eats much better these days, but he’s still picky you know.”

Mycroft huffs softly at John’s mother-henning. And although he knows all Lovely’s quirks and his schedule from the daily reports,  he allows John to continue with a list of every possible detail for Lovely’s evening until he’s practically pushed out the door.

* * *

Two hours later and half-a-dozen ignored calls from John, finds Mycroft comfortably settled on the couch. He has a revived fire crinkling in the hearth, a book from one of Sherlock’s shelves on Ephemeroptera in hand, a concert playing on his phone, and a dark head resting upon on his lap.

In between turning pages, Mycroft drops one hand to stroke his brother’s collared neck or rub soft circles over fleece wrapped shoulders. While he does this Lovely lightly dozes.  GIven the days Mycroft has been having at work, despite the circumstances, this night with his brother has actually been quite serene.

Well, that is if he omits stepping out of the kitchen to call Sherlock to supper and finding his brother madly grinding against one of his cushions. He supposes this shouldn’t have surprised him, since, as he was leaving, John warned him that Lovely had gone the whole day previous to this without being settled.

Fortunately, their human-hound hadn’t noticed him and he’d been able to retreat back into the kitchen until Lovely had finished. Afterwards, Mycroft was careful not to demonstrate any reaction to his brother’s antics, other than to quietly remove the defiled pillow to the laundry.

Recalling the mess, he winces and hopes they can conclude the evening without an encore.

His hand on lax shoulders stills as Lovely gives a sleepy sigh and nuzzles into him further. Pillow ravaging aside, Mycroft feels a tiny twinge in his gut at how dangerously much he likes this version of his brother: the trust, the affection.

While he desperately wants Sherlock back, he wouldn’t be opposed to having some of Lovely’s better qualities linger.

Picking up his soft petting again, Mycroft would be lying too if he said having Sherlock as he was now, didn’t make things a little easier. Oh, he still worried constantly, but there’s also been a tremendous relief  these last three months, knowing where Sherlock was at every moment, and that he was safe, or at least relatively out of danger.

His mind drifts back to what happened with John earlier today. He hopes they’ll be able to work something out. While he isn’t happy with what happened, the effect that it’s had on the Lovely part of his brother’s psyche, if he’s honest with himself, he’s even less happy with the idea of putting Sherlock in someone else’s care.

Leaving the book on mayflies open, he sets it on his knees. Mycroft retrieves his phone. Keeping the music playing in the background he begins to open up documents. He wants to review the morning report again and read the afternoon’s as well. There’ll be video he’ll need to watch also, if he’s going to make an informed decision.

* * *

 

Within Sherlock’s mind palace, time doesn’t exist, so after his retreat back down to his dungeon, he has no notion of how long it’s been when he emerges again.

Stepping cautiously once more into the room he’d earlier ventured into; his pale eyes fall on the bitch. She’s stretched out on a sofa, obviously sleeping. No ridiculous outfit this time, her huge paws twitching as she paces her dreams.

There’s music coming from somewhere again: Peruvian flutes now. A fire dances merrily in the hearth and there's enough electricity that the few intact bulbs in the room cast a soothing warm glow. The soft light does nothing to soften the disarray, however.

Looking around the chaos, Sherlock steps over to one of the emptied bookcases that line the room’s walls. If he’s to do anything about his situation, he realizes he must begin to get his palace back in order. He bends and picks up one of the texts from the heap at its base. It’s an astronomy book.

_Why on earth would I have this?_

Flipping through the book, as with most of his library, the pages are blank unless the information is pertinent. He finds the book empty except for a single entry on the Van Buren Supernova. As he peruses the text, images flicker in front of his eyes: a dead man on a riverbank, a painting.

It’s all frustratingly vague. Sherlock sighs and slips the book into the case, then he bends to retrieve another.

Time goes on... Soon he’s exhausted, and he’s barely filled one case. What distresses him more than how physically compromised he feels, is how many empty pages there are in most of his books.

His eyes slide over to the bitch, still lightly snoring on the couch.

Blurry memories of his captivity begin to come back to him, things from before she appeared. A shiver grips his lean frame recalling gaping lengths of isolation, locked in his cage in his master’s basement. How he poured over this library trying to hold on to his sanity.

At least, until he realized no one was coming for him, that there would be no rescue. Ever. Then, rather than try and hide in all the facts he’d amassed over his life, he began occupying himself by deleting everything he could. He'd wanted, no... _needed_ to be mindless. Otherwise, his then life was simply too excruciating.

He’d been halfway through erasing this library at the time he was driven down into the dungeon.

Glancing down, the book in his hands is a scientific treatise on bees. Cracking the spine he finds only a couple paragraphs remain. They're on bees and what provokes their stings: the thing to know if one is to spend hours on his knees in the garden. 

Sherlock throws the book away from him with a sob.

The sound of pages skittering across the dirty wood floor wakes the bitch. She raises her head and regards him, her gray eyes unblinking. Something in her canine stare terrifies Sherlock. He shuffles his feet a moment in indecision and then makes a dash for the door to the dungeon.

She’s faster however, dropping from the couch, a dark flash. Standing in front of his escape exit, she bristles and growls.

“What!” Sherlock’s appalled to feel his eyes tear,cheeks growing wet. His heart pounds. “What do you want from me!?”

Lovely doesn’t cringe from his shouting. Instead she holds her ground, though her growl drops into a low rumble. She waits until Sherlock stills. Then she begins pacing forward. Sherlock’s terror rises again until he suddenly realizes the bitch is herding him.

She drives him over to the windows. Sherlock finds himself facing the broken panes once more. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see what lies outside now, fearful it will be the same, fearful it will be different.

Since his last trip upstairs, his outfit of boxers and jumper remain, despite his best attempts to change into something more suitable.  There’s a cold nudge of nose against his knee. At the shock of it, Sherlock reaches out, presses a hand against the panes to brace himself.

His eyes flicker open at a the sound of light tinkling and a rippling sensation under his palm. What he sees stuns, as at his touch, the cracked glass mends itself. Spiderwebs of cracks shimmer and evaporate. Around the holes, the glass liquefies and flows, swirling itself closed.

The transformation pulls energy from from him, leaving him feeling even more depleted, but when Sherlock steps back, the window is restored… perfect.

And outside the window…

* * *

Mycroft has just finished reviewing the afternoon reports, both Anthea's and John’s. He’s watched the video from the feeds, but while something obviously happened, he’s still not convinced.

He rouses from these thoughts as Lovely starts awake, jostling his lap.

It’s odd, Lovely’s respiration has just tripled, despite how still he remains. All laxness of sleep is gone, the human-hound’s body drawn tighter than the strings of Sherlock’s violin.

“Everything okay, Lovely?” Mycroft lowers his phone.

At the light rub of his hand over sweatered shoulders, Lovely stiffens even more. Mycroft stills his hand, stills himself entirely. He waits, watching, listening.

After about five minutes, there’s a subtle shift of the dark head in his lap. Mycroft tips his own for a better view, once Lovely seems to settle again. His eyes widen dramatically when he realizes it appears that Lovely is reading the book still spread open over his knees.

Blinking to clear his vision, lest it’s a mistake, Mycroft looks again. While their human-hound is doing everything possible to make it seem as though he’s still resting, there’s no mistaking the eye movement for anything else.

Seeing that Lovely’s reached the end of the page, Mycroft risks moving. The hand on his brother's shoulder lifts, it reaches over and with one long finger, flips the page. The lean body against him  noticeably cringes but this only lasts a second or two before he’s clearly reading again.

The expression on the pale pup’s face is voracious and Mycroft suddenly realizes that it’s quite likely that this isn’t Lovely at all. His chest swells tight with the impossible hope of it.

Not yet willing to believe, while his left hand continues to rhythmically turn pages, in his right, he’s thumbing through his phone.

He pulls up his play list and starts a particular piece, it’s  Fritz Kreisler’s violin solo, “Prelude and Allegro in the style of Pugnani.” Blue eyes stay fixed on his brother’s face. There’s a flicker when the music starts, but that’s not what Mycroft’s watching for.

Few times in Mycroft’s life have the seconds passed so interminably slow. One minute ticks by, then two. It’s at two minutes and thirty two seconds in the five minute piece when it happens.

The solo is something he recorded live and at that exact moment, 2:32, the violinist’s fingers fumbled. The error is so slight that very few people outside himself would have caught it.

His brother would, however. Definitely.

2:29, 2:30…

Mycroft holds his breath. Below, gray eyes continue to move rapidly over the pages.

2:31…

At 2:32, the eyes still, and at 2:33, closely as he’s watching there’s no way Mycroft can overlook the tiny tic of Sherlock’s dark head.

_...Sherlock’s_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Far too long since the last update. Hope a few of you are still hanging in on this story with me. I know I have been very remiss in attending to comments too. I'll attend to that next. So if you left feedback, you're apt to get a very late note from me.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	9. Birth (Re)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update at last. Do you know how much I treasure your patience? Well, I do.

* * *

Staring out the restored window of his mind palace, Sherlock sees the empty desk, the illuminated hearth. He’s still in the same room he saw earlier, only it’s obviously night now and this time his vantage point is different. His heartbeat accelerates and his gut twists uncomfortably finding his transport no longer seated on the floor but instead, curled up against a warm body on a seemingly familiar sofa.

_We’re not allowed on the furniture. Master forbids it._

The ground of his palace tremors beneath him as his transport stiffens. The shaking stops when he sees how placid  the hound next to him remains. He remembers then: he and the bitch have a new owner now.

_Speaking of which…_

He pauses in his unease to more fully determine the position of his “vehicle.” Through the panes he glimpses tailored pantlegs beside him; a book open on lean thighs. Sherlock's immediately aware the person he’s pressed to is not the same man he saw before. The legs are longer for one. Somehow he knows too that the rich fabric, as well as its cut, are nothing that the man at the desk earlier would naturally wear.

Given this, he deduces his previous encounter must have been with one of his keepers, and this sharper dressed man… This is his true master.

Terror seizes him.

Were it not for the bitch keeping him in check, he’d be back to his dungeon already. Then, though he’s not driving his transport at the moment, just for an instant, Sherlock senses the ghost of a hand upon his shoulder. Out in the room, the man is touching his body. His panic ratchets up and a light whining escapes him. It dissipates quickly, however, when there’s no sudden blow to his nose, no pinching, or pushing.

Looking closer, Sherlock sees the attitude of the legs is relaxed. There’s another brush of the barely-there sensation. The hand, previously on his transport’s shoulders, is moving. However, its owner, and apparently his, is keeping its weight light, rubbing slowly, in a way that while slightly stiff, is meant to be soothing.

Whoever he’s with is obviously okay with their present arrangement.

Sherlock is not, however. He doesn’t know this new master. Nor does he trust how long the man, who’s lap his head is resting in, will be content to just let his sleeping dog lie. He’s about to bolt, bitch be damned, until his gaze falls again upon the open book his new master is reading. This time, his eyes are actually focused enough to grasp the text.

_Mayflies…_

It’s not bees and it’s written in Dutch, but this makes no difference. Forgetting his caution, Sherlock presses forward, nose against the window, suddenly eager. His eyes devour every word, drink in the beautifully rendered seventeenth century etchings.

Within seconds he’s reached the end of the page.

Before his frustration even has time to fully swell, a small miracle happens and it turns. Plunging forward into the fresh page, Sherlock downs the text like a drug, his synaptic systems instantly buzzing.

Two pages in, he recognizes the book. Had memorized it once in fact, word for word. It’s Augerius Clutius’ 1634 _De Hemerobio,_ a first edition. He can tell by the paper, recalls the mill it was pulped from, the town press where the type was set, the chemical composition of the ink. He knows all these things because when he was still human, he owned a copy. Very much like this one, in fact.

Too painful a territory to traverse, Sherlock pushes these thoughts out of his mind as quickly as they enter and returns to reading. He understands his place. He shouldn’t be doing this. Long fingers automatically reach up to touch the collar on his throat. Since he discovered it, no matter how many times he’s taken it off, it continues to reappear there, reminding.

He’s just as much a bitch as Lovely is still.

Despite this, he can’t tear his eyes away from the book. The pages turn again and again at just the right moment. All of a sudden Sherlock realizes in his hunger for words, he’s overlooked the obvious. Once it registers he stumbles back from his window. A terrible coldness fills his core.

_He knows…_

If this is a test, he’s failed it: his new master knows that he’s reading and he’s turning the pages for him.  

Crumpling to the floor Sherlock folds his arms over his head and waits. He braces himself for transport to shake from a slap, for the air to leave the room as the collar is twisted tight enough to choke. For everything in the room to slide when transport is shoved off the sofa and onto the floor. Or worse yet, the prick of a needle that will render his awakening mind senseless once more.

Minutes pass, he sits there trembling, and nothing happens.

Well, not quite nothing. The bitch draws up next to him again. Hot breath pants in Sherlock’s ear and a cold nose presses at its junction with his jaw. The touch only increases his tremors; his mind still locked into possible outcomes.

“No, please…”

His plea is met with a soft canine sigh and the laving of a too-wet tongue. The action is intended to assure and it takes a bit, but eventually Sherlock lowers his arms to meet solemn, gray eyes that leave him feeling impossibly foolish.

Seized by troubled memories, he’d forgotten he’s in a disembodied place (it feels so real). Forgotten it would be physically impossible for the bitch, given her gender, to fuck him.  And… now that he’s no longer lost in the past, Sherlock forcibly reminds himself, the very design of Lovely’s character was not to put him in his place, but rather to allow him to escape it.  

The dog holds his gaze and although Sherlock’s quite sure she's seen exactly what he’s thinking, she doesn’t take offense. Instead, she tips her head offering a panting smile. Underlines her forgiveness with a couple swishes of lengthy tail. Her gentle acceptance brings tears to his eyes and, for the first time since he made her, Sherlock reaches out without fear. Long fingers trail over Lovely’s dark-silvered muzzle. His tears increase when she closes her eyes and leans into his touch.

Her fur is so soft under his hand.

Unwilling to relinquish the sensation, Sherlock holds his hand in place as he pulls himself up off the floor. Once he’s up, he fully expects her to herd him back over to the window, but she doesn’t. Rather she leads him out of the room. She moves slowly, so as not to severe their fragile connection. It’s the furthest he’s gone yet from the safety of his dungeon, but with his new understanding of her, he follows.

* * *

Sherlock is completely overwhelmed by the time they arrive at Lovely’s destination.

Traveling through a maze-work halls filled with skittering shadows, left darkened from burnt out sockets, if he thought the shambles of his first room was terrible, it has nothing on the devastation that’s befallen the rest of his palace. Everything he so painstakingly built seems in ruin. The smell of dust and death and so many other corruptions permeates everything, and not in any of the ways he used to find _interesting_.

He would have never made it this far were it not for Lovely gently nudging him along, keeping him steady. And even with her standing here beside him now, head grown damp beneath his sweating palm, Sherlock’s unsure of whether or not he can face whatever it is she wants to show him behind the door they’re standing in front of.

It’s just one of the many gray panels lining the long, dim corridor, but this one is markedly different. Sooty residue all around its perimeter, it’s mouldings look scorched. There are about half a dozen complicated locks on the facing.

Whether this is to keep one out or hold someone or something in, Sherlock has no recollection.

At his feet, Lovely lifts her paw and gives the door a few quick scratches in way of encouragement. Dropping his gaze to meet hers, Sherlock’s stomach drops as well: the lower half of the panel is all but dug clear through with what were obviously frantic canine claws.

“It appears _someone_ wanted in here rather badly…” He frowns; his understatement met with only a couple innocent, canine blinks.

Sherlock cannot control the shake of his hands as he reaches for the first lock. The moment his fingertips touch the brass, its surface begins to shimmer and smoke. When the bolt starts to hiss, he draws back, only to note that now all the other locks are doing the same.

There’s a cadence of “clicks” as each one unlatches.

Slowly the door swings open. Soft amber light beckons from the interior. Without the nudge of furry snout against his thigh, Sherlock would likely have stood there indefinitely, but with great trepidation and another patient poke from Lovely, he steps forward.

Behind the door it’s not at all what he expects.

It’s just a room. Rather small, really. Beige and drab it has the look of a low-level government official’s office. There’s a window to the left that presently looks out to nothing. A couple cheap prints on the wall, a few file cabinets. To the back, a worn chair for guests sits in front of a not too overly-imposing, dark, wood desk.

The setting is entirely unremarkable. With the exception that behind the desk, rather than a wall, a rich velvet curtain that spans the width of the room. Sherlock stares at the drape for a moment. It’s significant. No doubt hiding something. But taxed as he feels, he has absolutely no desire to peek behind it.

It’s just as well, since it seems this veil is not the reason Lovely brought him here. Instead, she bounds over to the desk and sets her forepaws on one edge. Raising herself up to an almost standing position she utters a soft “gruff” and nods towards the desk’s center.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker from where they got caught on Lovely’s sparsely-haired, pink belly, over to where she’s “pointed.” What he sees makes him blink. Originally the top of the desk was bare, but stepping up now, there’s an old fashioned album of sorts set on its surface.

“You want me to look at this?”

A disconcertingly familiar expression on Lovely’s furry face tells Sherlock she thinks him stupid for stating the obvious.

Not wishing to put his back to the curtain, Sherlock gathers the album towards the front of the desk and then pulls the “clients’ chair” closer. He sits down, boxer-clad bottom resting at the edge of it. Just in case he has to make a quick dash away.

Bracing himself, Sherlock rests his hand on the album’s cover. He draws a deep breath.  

It’s only then he realizes this room smells different than the places in his palace he’s passed through. There’s traces of old paper here and, oddly, toner fluid, a distinct brand of cigarette smoke, leather, and a light aftershave that makes his nose itch. The combination is both comforting and annoying.

Seeing her counterpart settled as he’s going to get, Lovely drops down from where’s she’s been standing and comes around to sit down beside him.

A wet swipe at his knuckles breaks Sherlock from his olfactory analysis and gets him moving. Cracking the album, he wasn’t sure what he might find, but like the room, when he opens it, it’s nothing he would have imagined. The first page holds only a single picture. A stiff-looking ginger-haired boy holds a blanket-wrapped bundle with a furious dark mop peeking out from the top of it.

Puzzled, Sherlock flips to the next page.

There’s more pictures and the solemn ginger is back, this time accompanied in each shot by a curly-haired tot. In one photo they’re playing together with blocks, marked not with the alphabet, but the periodic elements. Another has the toddler on the older boy’s lap and it appears as though the lad is reading out loud from a collection of Shakespeare.

An unexpected lump forms in Sherlock’s throat. His eyes fall on a picture of the younger, dark-haired boy, barely at an age to stand, precariously upright on a stool peering into a microscope. His older companion stands beside him, one hand steadying, the other adjusting the scope’s stage.

There are other pictures, different in nature. These just of the ginger, taken from precarious vantage points. The boy looks larger than life in them. Almost always serious.  A force to be reckoned with, Sherlock thinks. 

Flipping through the pages, studying them, the reason strikes him for the difference in the photographic styles. One set of images is obviously taken from a standard camera, these are regular family shots.

But these others…

Those snaps are moments of memory taken by the eyes of the little dark-haired tyke. If he ever had any doubt of it, flipping to the final page in the album confirms it. Here, there aren’t any photos, but two drawings instead, each pasted on an opposite page.

One is a toddler’s rendition of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Not too bad really, considering it’s done by a hand that’s obviously just learning to hold a pencil. The other drawing is far more simple in depiction, but it’s impact is profound.

It’s a colored-pencil garden filled with slashes of yellow and black bees.

Way in the background is a tiny house with two, tinier stick figures designated “mummy” and “father.” The labels clearly added later in an older hand. The foreground, meanwhile is occupied by a small figure with overabundant black hair and beneath this, written in struggled block letters: “SHERLOCK.” Holding his hand, impossibly large, is another orange-topped character and beneath this:

“BROTHER MYCROFT.”

Understanding now the album’s true contents, rage wells within Sherlock’s chest and he slams the book closed. Since being taken he’d worked so hard to shut out everything that ever meant anything to him. The pain that fills him, the loss is...

_Excruciating._

He leaps to his feet. She’s not supposed to be cruel to him.

“Why are you showing me this!”

Lovely shrinks from the tone with a whine. Sherlock’s about to shout again when over the bitch’s sad sounds he hears it.

There’s music. Here. In this false office.

Violin, and it’s beautiful.

The strings pull him against his will towards the lone window. Looking out this time reveals the room his transport is in once more. Sherlock notes his master’s long legs. Knows somehow, from the look of them, the man is waiting.

_For what?_

Then Sherlock hears it, the skip in the musician’s fingers. His breath catches when seconds later he hears his name.

“Sherlock...”

Again, it’s not “Lovely” or “Libu” and the way that it’s spoken, the timbre of the voice… 

Reels of pictures swim past his eyes and he sees the spaces between every image in the album on the desk. Stunned from the tumult, he's glad they stop where the album ends.

But then...

He understands now he’s somehow been truly rescued. That it’s _BROTHER MYCROFT_ , the man that they're lying on.

And with a jolt that dizzies, suddenly Sherlock finds himself fully embodied in his transport.

He should be elated but instead, back in his body, this time he can feel he’s naked but for a drape and the band of soft leather around his neck. When he's finally able to draw a breath again, the rough sound that’s jarred from his throat startles them both.

Sherlock wants to retreat, but he’s frozen physically and mentally. He’s trying so hard to pull back inside himself, but something’s stopping him. He wants to growl when he realizes it’s Lovely.

 _The bitch!_  

All the softer feelings he's had for her evaporate and he hates her more than he's ever hated anyone. Even his previous masters.

Sherlock's chest sucks with the sticky tar of humiliation. It’s terrible to consider how long he’s been living here with his brother as the hound. Even more awful still, is this means his brother obviously knows to great extent what’s happened to him. 

“Sherlock stay.”

The voice arrests him just as much as Lovely thwarts. There’s no mistaking the command it. Sherlock trembles, trapped. Then MYCROFT speaks again, this time so much more gently.

“Please…"

The next words are soft, slightly choked. The plea in them is clear, the emotion profound. Transport’s eyes well at the magnitude of it and Sherlock can feel the wetnness dampening its cheeks.

“Just for a minute or two. Please, Sherlock, stay. I won’t ask you for more than this.

"I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

Again with the voice, but MYCROFT makes no attempt to move, to shift them, to look into his eyes, and Sherlock’s so grateful for this. He couldn’t bear it. Even now, in the stress of this, he can’t help it but open transport’s, his, mouth and begin to lightly pant.

“I doubt after what you’ve been through, you can believe me when I tell you, you’re safe now. But you are. I am here as I can be, but otherwise John’s looking after you.

"Do you remember him? John. Do you remember me even, I wonder." The earlier emotion in MYCROFT'S voice has been reigned in. In it's place is something remarkably orderly. It's very much in keeping with what Sherlock might have expect the boy in the album to grow into.

“It makes no matter. That will come in time, all you need to know right now is that you’re safe.”

The hand stilled upon Sherlock’s shoulders sits just a tiny bit heavier to underscore this and the pressure is both welcome and terrible.

“You’re doing so well, Sherlock. Staying here with me right now. I know you’re going to have to leave soon, but I’m very proud of you in this moment for how hard you’re working.”

Conditioned for so long by his previous master, the praise washes over Sherlock like a wave. It’s warm and soothing. His thundering chest floods with a glorious heat. It wells up in his throat, spills from his eyes in a torrent.

Then Sherlock realizes it’s not just his master’s conditioning. His mind flashes back to the album: the tiny boy, his monumental “BROTHER.” 

It’s as if MYCROFT can read his thoughts when he speaks next.

“I haven’t always been been the most complimentary of you, Sherlock... I had my reasons, of course. Not all of them good.

"But things happen… Things that change one.”

Sherlock understands. Hell’s fires can be no hotter than the shame of his brother seeing him like this, knowing. But once more, it’s as if, looking down on him from where he sits, MYCROFT can see through the shelter of his skull, reads what’s there, inside.

“It's hardly comforting, but even terrible things can sometimes make us better in the end... If we can endure them.”

The words douse the fire but fill Sherlock with a chill that trembles him harder. Ever so slowly the hand on his shoulder moves. Warm, dry fingers tuck a sweat-damp curl gently behind Sherlock's ear and the sensation unmoors him.

“If we can, Brother, I'd like this to be a fresh start for us. A new beginning. A re-birth for us both."

The sound of Sherlock's increasingly rapid panting is now intermittently interrupted by chattering teeth.

"So well, you're doing. Yes, I'm very proud." MYCROFT exhales a quiet sigh. 

"You have to go Sherlock, I understand. Before you do, I want you to know that however long you’re gone, it's alright. When you're ready... When you come back next time, however long you can stay…

"Well... that’s alright too.”

MYCROFT'S hand rests at the base of his ear, the touch is so light, but somehow it tethers.

“John and I have got you… And Lovely… Regardless.”

Above him, Sherlock feels MYCROFT’S other arm move but he wouldn't shrink from it now even if he could. A hand scrabbles within a jacket folded over the back of the couch to pull something from a pocket. It is set carefully atop the book.

Through his tear-blurred eyes Sherlock sees a cell phone.

It was his in a previous life.

“We found this at the place you were taken. I have carried it with me _constantly_. But I’m returning it to you now. It will stay here for you on the coffee table. I’ll make sure John keeps it charged.”

Sherlock shudders: his brother is offering him a life-line.

The hand upon his face lifts. Sherlock rises with it. He feels himself floating away.

_Finally._

But spoken in a voice so tender it seems somehow wrong, Mycroft’s last words follow him back.

“I lived so many years expecting you to lose you somehow irrevocably. I thought I’d prepared myself adequately for it.

“I was wrong.

“I can’t have found you only to lose you again.

"Take your time, but do come back...

"Please, Brother Mine."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this. I do know where this is all going, it's jut the characters always seem to want to spend more time with each other than I expect them to and I feel it's rude of them to rush.
> 
> My thanks to everyone following this story. Your comments and continued interest in this fic, despite my lapses, keeps me going in so many ways.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Birth by Feral_Fic_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870954) by [dragonheart221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonheart221b/pseuds/dragonheart221b)




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